


Where Angels Tread

by stellamira1936



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, It's a Friendly Business but We're Not Friends, Light Bondage, Mycroft Being A Stalker, Mycroft Being Stalked, Mycroft-centric, Prostitution, Sex Work, Sex workers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-02-14 00:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 255,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2171046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellamira1936/pseuds/stellamira1936
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an erotic thriller that explores, from an original point of view, how incredibly complicated it is to be Mycroft Holmes, and how he might get from "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," to "Your loss would break my heart." Sexually explicit situations abound, but that's not the main point. The story's timeline is folded into the six-month lacuna of "His Last Vow;" it's not really canon-compliant, more like scribbling in the margins ;)  Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Somewhere beyond right and wrong, there is a garden. Meet me there." ~ Rumi

When you are a shade over six feet tall, figuring out how to get out of a car gracefully in a pencil skirt and high heels is more of a challenge than most people realize. It’s not something they covered in my training at the Agency, either, although you’d think it might have come up, since they were so incredibly thorough. It's the sort of thing that takes practice, and I haven’t had much of that yet. Still, the outfit makes me feel fabulous, even though the hobble-effect makes me stumble over the kerb as I unfurl myself from the cab. I hear the driver laughing as he drives off, and I'm glad I didn't tip him much.

I hurry to get under the hotel’s marquee for shelter out of the summer drizzle. July is supposed to be one of the few warm, dry months here in London, but tonight is neither; I wish I had worn the jacket that goes with this skirt, but I thought it would look too formal. I pull my phone out of my red leather clutch and send my manager the obligatory text: _Arrived @ Marylebone Hotel._

It's seven minutes to nine, despite the traffic delays. I swear that cabbie went by way of every street under construction he could find! I’m not calling him again. Doesn't matter, here I am, plenty of time to get to my nine o'clock meeting. A gaggle of tourists are coming out as I go in the wide glass doors of the hotel. One of the men holds the door for me, and gives me a slow, appreciative once-over as I go past with a murmur of thanks. I don't understand women who dress to kill and then complain that men stare. I like attention, I always have. If anything, I wish I could dress more daringly for work, but the Agency forbids it. Official policy is that we maintain a fairly conservative appearance.

The lobby is bright, and humming with activity. I stride purposefully toward the lifts, passing a little group of painfully well-dressed young men clustered by the door. In German, they are loudly debating which club would give them the best chance of getting laid by an English girl tonight. Jerks. I consider for a brief moment stopping and advising them to just give up and hire a nice escort instead, but really, there are some things youth just has to find out on its own. Not that I'm so old myself, not quite past the quarter-century mark yet, but I think I've traveled more miles than most people my age.

I pull my phone out again to check the text I'd gotten this morning from my manager. I've learned the hard way that it pays to double-check the time and room number. _Mr. Tate, all the usual, Sat 9pm-11pm, Marylebone Hotel #514._ Fifth floor, then. I square off in front of the shiny steel lift doors, hit the Up button and wait.

I love fine hotels, but I hate lifts. You know, people can die in them. I'd take the stairs up instead, except that I don't want to arrive panting and sweaty. The row of lights above the lift doors isn’t moving right now; someone must be holding it up. Damn. I sigh and fidget with impatience, realizing it’s mostly nerves.

Staring at the polished doors, I can see my reflection clearly. I vogue just a tiny bit and pull my"pretty face,” then have a laugh at my own vanity. My sister Sara has pointed out more than once that I can’t pass a reflective surface without checking myself out, and I have to admit that she’s not just being bitchy. I probably do have a touch of narcissism, but I like to think that I temper it with a good sense of humor.

I glance down to make sure that my slim skirt is smooth and straight, and there are no stray threads dangling from my very-business blouse; everything in it's place. "Mr. Tate" is very particular about his attire, he probably notices details about other people’s.

The lift doors finally slide open in front of me, and I'm annoyed to see there wasn't even anyone in it. Why the hell were they holding it, then? Whatever. I take a deep breath, and step across the threshold into the lift. I know that doesn't seem like such a big deal, but for me it is, every time. I get this weird tingle of fear zinging up my thighs every damn time, classic PTSD symptom. Little things that happen when you are a kid can leave a big impression.

I hit the button for the fifth floor, and check my phone again for the time. Four minutes to nine. The lift hums around me, and I consider "Mr. Tate." Not his real name, of course, since one of the Agency's cornerstones is absolute anonymity. His real name is Holmes. This will be my third meeting with him, and in the six years that he's been a client of the Agency, I'm the first person that he's ever scheduled three consecutive meetings with, and the only woman he's met with in several years.

Now, I'm not supposed to know any of that, because the Agency treats all client information as highly classified, burn-after-reading, top-secret stuff. Our managers are only supposed to share with us what is absolutely necessary and no more. They even try to forbid us employees to share information amongst ourselves, which is silly. Of course we share. We have our own online forum, completely secret, and we gossip to our hearts' content.

The humming stops and the doors slide open. I force myself to step like a normal person over the threshold instead of doing a gazelle leap, and park myself beside a huge, fake potted plant to wait for a minute to tick by so I won't be early. I check in my clutch for my cigarette case, and for a nanosecond consider a quick smoke. That would be stupid, obviously, since the Mighty Powers that Meddle have decided to make it impossible to have a smoking habit indoors, but the fact that I actually considered it means I can’t continue to ignore how nervous I am.

I'm not the nervous type, usually. I'm a people-person, I can get along with almost anybody, and I can usually get what I want out of a situation. That may sound cold, but it's not. Everyone manipulates, right? Whether they realize it or not, they do. I'm no different, I'm just really good at it. But around this Holmes, I feel like I'm trying to walk on a carpet of ball-bearings. No movement brings the result you expect, and it always feels like you are on the verge of falling on your backside. I wonder if he's like that all the time, everywhere. He's certainly not somebody I would want to hang out with outside of a meeting, even if I were inclined to that sort of thing.

I check my phone again. One minute to nine. _It's show-time, Angelica!_  I tell myself, and start off down the hallway looking at the brass numbers on dark wooden doors. There's 514, right where it should be. I rap softly at the door, and immediately it swings open, sending strains of quiet classical music wafting into the hallway. It's precisely nine o'clock, and I can tell from the faint quirk around the edges of his mouth that he approves.

 _"Angel. Come in._ " The tall, slender man in an immaculate navy-blue suit steps aside so I can enter, then quickly shuts the door behind us. He isn't furtive — and believe me, I know what furtive looks like — but he is oddly alert. Guilty? I glance at his left hand, and note once again that it does not, and probably never has, worn a wedding ring. He wears a plain gold band on the right ring-finger, but since the odds of his being Eastern Orthodox are slim to none, it's probably a sentimental piece.

There is no greeting, no hellos, no how are you's. I caught on to that fast, our very first meeting. My usual effervescent conversation, my attempts to draw him out and make both of us comfortable, all the soothing flirtation that puts men at ease...made him wince and subtly grind his teeth, even though he responded politely enough. So I just shut up, and he relaxed. The less I talk, the happier he seems, and he's paying a hell of a lot of money for me to make him happy for a few hours; the least I can do is be silent, if that's what he likes, even though it feels strange to not even say hello to someone who is shortly going to be pounding me into the mattress.

I lay my clutch down on a side table by the door and check things out while he busies himself with a decanter and ice bucket at the wet bar. There is the sharp smell of whisky. The room is typical for the Marylebone since the remodel; very posh and chrome-contemporary, but a little cramped. However, there is a sturdy headboard fastened to the bed, no doubt one of the reasons that we're here. Usually the Agency makes the arrangements for out-call accommodation, but it's one of this man's particulars that he should do it himself. A different hotel each time, apparently, but sturdy headboards are a must. There is a plain black gym bag resting on the floor beside the bed, and I feel a little thrill of anticipation. Or something.

He settles into a plush white armchair with a tumbler of amber in one hand, and gestures with a slow, long-fingered sweep of the other to where he wants me to stand tonight for the initial viewing. A Bach adagio is playing softly in the background, with a treble chorus of tinkling from the ice in his glass.

This looking-over is apparently how he likes to start things. The first time he spent forever just staring at me, his slender fingers clasped together under his chin, his eyes half-closed. Then he had me walk around the room, sit down and stand up again. He told me to take off my clothing; I asked, " _How?_ " When he arched an eyebrow at that, I added, _"Would you like me to take my dress off playfully, or demurely, or — ?"_

 _"Like you would if you were at your flat, alone,"_ he said. So I did, just like that, and he calmly watched like it was television.

Tonight, though, he stays sprawled in the chair only a moment, then he jumps up, drink in one hand, the other tucked into his trouser pocket, and starts stalking a restless circle around me. I stand still as stone, staring into the middle distance as if I were modeling for a life-drawing class. I enjoy being looked at, but it's a little boring just standing there avoiding eye contact. I wonder if tonight will be the same as our last two meetings? I'm betting it will, that he's the type who will quickly evolve a rigid ritual around stressful activities, and then not deviate from it. I mentally flip through my catalog of mental disorders again. Yes, he's very definitely on the spectrum for Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, but not obviously dysfunctional enough to qualify as full-blown OCD. I wonder if he’s in treatment.

At our first meeting, as I watched the man methodically folding and hanging his clothes as he removed them, one layer after another, I decided he could be the OCPD poster child. The suit jacket carefully hung up on the silent valet in the corner, then his cufflinks undone and lined up in the center of the wooden tray below it. The pocket watch and chain followed the cufflinks, but not before he had snapped it open for one more look at the time. Sleeve garters — garters! who on earth wears sleeve garters these days? — slipped off and laid in the tray as well, then the waistcoat was finally unbuttoned and hung up...his tie not just loosened and slipped off, but undone, carefully smoothed and folded over the tie-bar...his shirt shaken out, hung so the sleeves were exactly equal, and all the buttons buttoned...then the shoes, laces carefully re-tied, lined up precisely under the valet...as a finale, he snapped the creases in his trousers so hard before hanging them up that I half expected the fabric to complain at the treatment.

And that's where the disrobing stopped, since he seems to prefer to leave on his briefs, undershirt and gartered socks. It's not altogether unheard of, although he's a little young to be one of that crowd; I guess his age at no more than early 40's. To each their own, as my auntie used to say, but I have to admit it feels weird to have sex with a bloke who is still in his underwear.

The underwear thing is actually a bit weirder to me than are the restraints that Holmes requires. So many clients want to do light bondage that it hardly rates as a fetish anymore, to be honest, but it does require at least a minimal bond of trust between the escort and client. I bet that was a problem for Holmes before he got a referral to the Agency—how do you keep people at arm’s length and still get your needs met, unless you’ve got just the right kind of professional to help out?

The Agency provides the right kind of professionals, although even professionals run into snags sometimes.

When I had my first meeting with "Mr. Tate" I was expecting to be put in restraint right away, but I wasn't happy when he snapped some official-looking metal handcuffs on me. I had been told he provided his own equipment, but nobody mentioned metal cuffs. They are damned uncomfortable things, especially when you have to wear them for hours in odd positions. I very nicely let him know afterwards that metal wasn't my preference, and he seemed genuinely surprised and actually apologized. Apparently I was the first escort ever to object, go figure. At the second meeting, he brought some lovely squishy wrist-cuffs in black suede, but it was impossible to tighten them securely enough for his satisfaction.

 _"I dislike being touched,_ " he said in his soft, cultured voice, and added that it was important to be sure it wouldn't happen accidentally. We were both annoyed that the squishy fetters were too big for my slender wrists, but I saved the day by suggesting that the cuffs be firmly secured above my elbows, with the tether clipped between the bands to keep my arms behind my back. It worked pretty well, and was more comfortable than the metal handcuffs.

So what's in that gym bag for tonight? Thinking about it doesn't exactly turn me off. Holmes finally stops his pacing to stand directly in front of me, and I notice that the high heels I'm wearing put me just a bit above eye-level with him. For some reason, this pleases me immensely. We're roughly the same size, although a bit differently shaped, but I could wear his lovely three-piece suit quite comfortably.

This brings on a huge urge to giggle. I really do have a strange sense of humor, and it surfaces at the oddest times. I have to work hard to suppress it tonight. Giggling at clients when it is not mutual is a Very Bad Idea, and I have the feeling that Holmes would be especially unimpressed.

He is looking into my face so intently that I'm surprised to not have laser holes bored through to the back of my skull. Despite the intensity of those blue eyes, the man's face has a remote and cold expression, as if he were very decidedly somewhere else. It's unnerving to be looked at and looked through at the same time. He seems so detached. A thought flashes through me: How silly to pay an enormous amount of money for an experience that you aren't even going to be fully present for! What a waste. He is untouched, and untouchable, and that's how he wants it....

Holmes looks away, and sets the empty tumbler down on a side table. _"Undress,"_ he says softly, but this time doesn't sit down to watch. He goes over to the bed and unzips the gym bag, taking out what looks like a tangle of leather belts. It jangles quietly.

Even though I look fabulous in it, my slim skirt and business-lady blouse yet again proves a poor choice as a working outfit; I have to peel myself out of the skirt, tugging and wriggling. My black lace bra and knickers come off more quickly. I hesitate a moment over the shoes, since some clients like the look of a naked woman in sexy shoes, but I guess if he had a preference there he would have mentioned it. I prefer to take them off; the heels and buckles get hung up in the sheets sometimes, and in any case it always feels horribly wrong to wear shoes in bed. Bare as I was born from head to toe, I wait.

Holmes walks slowly back toward me, his slim hands patiently untangling the jangling leather. I am hoping and praying that those leather straps and brass rings are not some idiotic pony-play headgear piece. With the ridiculously twee ears. Please, God, not pony-play headgear. Butt plugs with horsey tails I can do gladly, but not bits and bridles and twee ears, nor am I overly fond of riding crops.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that there aren't any ears, and he glances up with a sharp look at the sound. He holds up the untangled leathers, and I can see it's a very nice, well-finished dark brown harness. I silently put my arms out to the sides, and he carefully places the strapping on my naked torso. The leather is cool on my skin, but the brass buckles are downright cold, and I feel my bare nipples clench and harden in response. His blue eyes dart down to take that in, and I see  
the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. He might be taking notes, I'm not sure.

His hands are careful and precise as he adjusts the various slides and buckles, until the harness sits perfectly, snug but not too tight. It's a clever design, attractive yet with loads of attachment points, sturdy without looking clunky. And it fits like it was custom-made. I am really liking how I feel in it. Holmes walks around me again, as if silently admiring, then returns to the gym bag and pulls out matching leather cuffs, four of them.

He fastens the smaller two around my wrists, the larger two around my ankles. The fit is perfect, like made to measure. Once more he stands back, looking pleased, then sweeps his fingers toward the bed. Obediently, I go turn down the sheets and sit, while he dims the lights down. It starts to feel a little surreal to me, especially since he has yet to even take off his suit jacket and I am sitting here naked in High Fashion Bondage, ready to be trussed up like a Christmas goose.

He does stop to take off and hang up his jacket, then, and the trussing commences. His eyes have that remote coldness again, and his face is a blank, polite mask, but his hands are gentle — I don't know that they wouldn't be, were I to resist, but there is no need to find out. He doesn't push my limbs further than they can comfortably go, and after a few minutes of creative bending, twisting, and clipping, I am immobilized and helpless. And unexpectedly anxious. I wasn't anxious like this the previous two sessions, but I wasn't completely immobilized before, either. This is different, he is different, tonight.

I focus on my breath to quell the panic. _Don't be silly, Angelica!_ I remind myself that I choose to be here willingly, that this client is a personal referral from other trusted clients, and they wouldn't refer him if he were a dangerous psycho — yet I can't deny the anxiety that blooms from nowhere and starts rolling around in my belly. I suddenly have to wee.

I'm pretty sure that I'm not really in any danger. Pretty sure. I'm disturbed to realize how much the thought of an element of danger is turning me on right now. I need to think about that some more, later.

He's faced me toward the wall, clipped to that sturdy headboard. I hear him somewhere behind me taking off his clothing, the clink of the cufflinks and pocket watch in the tray, the rustle as he hangs his shirt, the snap of trouser-creasing. I lay there breathing deeply, waiting, listening to a cello adagio quietly weaving around itself. Then I can feel him behind me, looking again. For what seems like forever, just looking, taking me with his eyes. Then I feel the mattress shift as he kneels closely behind me on the bed. He reaches out and lays his hands on my skin, cautious at first, then urgently, like he's hungry for the feel of it. Those long, slim-fingered hands are twitching over me, pressing, rubbing, exploring. He isn't tender or gentle, but he isn't brutal either. I've been touched in a lot of different ways by many men and no few women, but I have never felt touch like this. It's...demanding. Greedy. His hands are everywhere, all at once, and I have no power at all to deny or resist. It's almost too much.

He didn't do it like this the other times, but I wasn't so well-secured the other times. He probably feels safe. So, isn't that ironic? His feeling of safety is inversely proportional to mine...but we're both getting turned on. I can hear his breathing getting faster and more ragged, his touching is turning into grasping and relentless probing. I writhe around slightly, as much as the tethers allow, and moan very quietly. I can't help it, although I'm doing my best to stay still and quiet.

He doesn't seem to mind that I'm making a little noise; it seems to egg him on. He actually starts to brush my skin with his face, like a cat does when it greets you with a purring head-rub. My sister the veterinarian told me when a cat does that, they aren't being lovey, they are actually marking you as their territory. I don't know if Holmes is being territorial, but he certainly isn't being lovey. He's getting rougher and rougher with me, really lost in the hard physical contact. He seems to discover my hair for the first time, and presses his face into it and plays with it like he's never run his fingers through long hair before. That's a funny thought, maybe he hasn't. Who knows?

After a while, I feel him turn toward the bedside table, and hear the crackle of a condom wrapper, and I know he's getting ready to enter me from behind. I subtly tuck my hips and arch my lower back, making my arse less accessible. I don't mind taking it in the pucker, but I don't like it as a surprise, and given his history, he might forget in the heat of the moment that there is another option.

He doesn't forget. The actual main event doesn't last very long, but I suppose it lasts just exactly as long as he wants it to, since he's in total control. Thank goodness Holmes isn't one of those gents who needs the delusion that he is satisfying his escort as well. It is always so much more work to have to fake an orgasm, and then you have to heap on the praise after. I know ladies who profess to come with their clients all the time, but I think they're lying. Getting aroused is one thing, and I am pretty easily warmed up, but actually coming is something else again. I always save it for later, for myself.

It's a good thing I know not to expect any after-care, or, God forbid, cuddles, because once the deed is done Holmes is dressed and at the door like shot from a cannon. I'm grateful that he at least remembers to unbuckle the cuff from my right hand, so I can move around and un-truss myself. He pauses with one hand on the door-handle, and, without looking at me, gestures with the umbrella in his other hand at the black gym bag on the floor. _"Take the gear with you, and bring it to our next meeting."_ Then, snap, he's gone.

I feel wiped out, physically exhausted, which is funny, considering I didn't actually do much of anything. It must be his intensity. I've never been with someone that intense, but then I haven't been in the business all that long. I strip off the harness and cuffs and stretch my poor cramped shoulders and back, debating whether or not to take a shower before I leave. I sniff, and realize that I smell like him, all over. It's soap and expensive men's cologne and not at all nasty, but kind of overpowering. Shower for sure.

Like the room, the bath is a little cramped, but terribly posh. Nice fluffy towelling robes, too. Wandering around drying my hair, I look over at the table where I left my clutch. Beside it are the room keycards, with a few bills underneath. Large bills. That...is one helluva tip. And the key-cards are a clear invitation to enjoy the hotel's amenities on his tab, a free pass to use the spa, get my hair and nails done, get a massage...

In the end, I decide I don't want any of those things, I just want to go curl up in the nice, cozy flat I share with Sara. I dress, text my manager _"Mischief Managed!"_ so she knows I'm safe, and go in search of a cigarette, and a cab to take me home.

Later, sitting with my feet up on the sofa, our cat Pablo curled in my lap, and a mug of hot milky tea in my hand, I listen to the reverberations of Sara’s snoring carrying through the closed door of her bedroom. I'm glad that she's not awake and demanding gory details. My big sister says she wants to know everything because she worries about me, but I think her job at the animal hospital is boring her to death. Sometimes I make up things to tell her that will make her feel more boring. I’m just nice that way.

The black gym bag sits by the door where I dumped it when I came in, and I have an urge to rummage through and see if there is anything in it that can tell me anything at all about Holmes. I'm intensely curious about him, which is really interesting. I can feel myself going into stalker mode. The craving to find out everything I can about this man is visceral, but my head is also telling me that there are some important things I don't understand. Why has Holmes changed his sexual habits? If I’ve read him right, he is the sort of person who finds routine to be calming and supportive; he’s not going to change his habits in such a big way just for a giggle. So, why is he suddenly interested in meeting with the same escort again and again, and why me? I am pretty fabulous, but I certainly don’t think a bisexual man with a clear preference for men would look at my photo in the Agency’s online gallery and suddenly decide, _This woman is IT._

And it’s not like I can just ask him. I’ve never met someone so averse to talking, about anything. True, sometimes a client just wants sex with no talk, but it's usually the other way 'round. Especially at the level of middle-aged angst that prevails amongst the clients that can afford to frequent the Agency, the men more often than not want attention, compassion, admiration, understanding, and intelligent companionship. They want to get off, too, of course, but the other things are just as important. And as a result, they don't shut up. They talk and talk and talk, and you are being paid to listen and to act like you care. I studied to be a therapist before I decided I liked escorting better, and there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of difference. Except in the pay scale, of course. Escorts make far more money for a lot less work, and the tips are tax-free.

But Holmes doesn't seem to want anything except to get off...or does he? That hard contact thing. I sip my tea, and remember how he almost seemed to be trying to crawl inside my skin. There was more going on there than just the quest for an orgasm.

"Take the gear with you, and bring it to our next meeting." That means he's going to ask for me again. Do I want to continue meeting with him? I can't ignore my deep feeling there's something not completely right about the man. He's unsettling to me, in a way I can't put my finger on.

Possibly a psychopath? In any case, do I want to continue meeting with somebody who triggers my own anxieties? I could decline further meetings with him.

I realize I don't want to decline Holmes. What I want most of all is to satisfy my curiosity about who and what he is in real life, which is the taboo of taboos for anyone that works for the Agency. I am going to have to tread carefully here.

Glancing again at the black gym bag, I also have to admit that some part of me is looking forward to the next meeting. I finish my tea, dump Pablo off my lap, and take that part of me off to bed for some attention.


	2. "She generally gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it)..."  ~ Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

I sleep in the next morning long enough to feel like a luxurious slug. Pablo finally wakes me up by pouncing on my head over and over again, yowling. He does not do “hungry” very well, and obviously Sara didn't feed him before she left this morning. Her current boyfriend likes to take her for Sunday brunch every week, to the same place every week, for the same conversation every week. Then she comes home to hear about my wild and exciting weekend, real and imagined.

Pablo finally settles down over his bowl of tinned smelly fish bits, and I sit in a dressing gown over my morning tea and toasted bagel, checking the messages on my phone. There's the doctor's office reminding me of my appointment tomorrow for my monthly blood draw and STD screening, Erik's friend Adam still trying to get me to go on a date with him, and my manager needs to hear from me "soonest, dear, soonest!"

I start the kettle for a second mug of tea and phone my manager, who seems mostly concerned with how I got on with my gentleman last night. Fine, I tell her. Just like the other two times. No problem. Lovely gent. I don't feel like discussing my misgivings with her. She then begins to bubble with enthusiasm; apparently "Mr. Tate" contacted her this morning to book meetings with me for the next two weeks, and inquired about the Agency’s policy on long-term contracts. “ _I gave him all the details, and he is considering a three-month contract. Isn’t that wonderful?”_

I set down the kettle slowly. He’s thinking about hiring me on retainer? For three months? Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell. I’m not even sure what to think. My mouth opens, and I hear myself asking what kind of fee would we be talking about here? She names a sum that is only a little less than what I am making per month now, at my usual work load. 

Then she starts the sales pitch. _"And that would be you only meeting with him, of course, dear! With no limits on the number of visits, but he's not a super frequent customer, you know, he's a very busy man."_ She certainly is enthusiastic. Long-term contracts are desirable from the Agency's point of view, guaranteed income and all that, and it increases my market value as well. 

_"There's just one thing..."_ she hesitates. I wait silently for the other shoe to drop. There's always a catch. _"He wants to be exclusive for the duration, so you would have to agree to no other clients, and no personal liaisons, you know? You aren't seeing anybody right now anyway, are you?"_

 _"The only man in my life right now is my cat, and he's a eunuch."_ It's been four months since Erik and I called it quits, and I haven't been terribly eager to replace him after such a shitty breakup. 

I make a point of telling her that even if “Mr. Tate” were to offer me a retainer, I might not want to take it. I can tell from her voice that she thinks I’m mad to even think about declining, but airily adds that it is, of course, my decision. It most certainly is, I think. After some more bubbling about what a nice, reliable client "Mr. Tate" is, she gives me my booking for tonight, and encourages me to make good decisions. 

Hrumph.

Obviously, whatever Holmes got out of last night, he wants more of it. But why would he want to go to the expense of putting me on a three-month retainer if he's not even that frequent of a customer? And how much money does he have, to be able to afford it? Just what does he do for a living? Now I really want to do some serious stalking. 

And here my common sense kicks in. Is it worth it to risk losing this client, and maybe my position at the Agency? I am fully aware that my obsessive nature is about to kick in, and it's not for the first time, and I know how difficult it can be when you get caught doing stuff like this. People don't like it. But, first, they have to catch me.

I haul out my laptop and set to using my google-fu to see how many Mr. Holmes there are in London.

I find seven of them in the 30-50 age range: a plumber, a bus driver, a bank manager, an accountant, two department-store clerks, and a very strange man who is a "consulting detective," whatever that is. There are quite a few pictures of the detective on the web, and a few of the others, but none of them look at all like my "Mr. Tate." I am starting to doubt what I thought I read on the forum about his name, and who was it that posted it anyway?

I log in, and first have to take care of some administrative stuff; a flame war has erupted again and my inbox is stuffed with complaints. I issue warnings to the combatants and leave it at that. I've only been with the Agency a year or so, but nobody else was willing to take on being admin and moderator for the forum when the founder retired. I don't exactly have mad computer skillz, but I'm very good at figuring things out.

I find the post in question, on the board labeled "johnspotting." Two years ago, Terry B. posted that he overheard "Mr. Tate" introduced at a social function as "Mr. Mycroft Holmes." I don't know Terry B., but I'm sure I know someone who does and can tell me if he is full of it or not. 

I look again at all the postings that "Holmes" or "Tate" bring up when I search. There's nothing I haven't seen already. The advice from the working boys to each other concerning him is mostly about his requirements for restraints and staying clothed, warnings to not expect any conversation or warm fuzzies, and don't ever, ever try to touch him. There's not much else. Which is a little unusual, actually; there are all sorts of really juicy bits of gossip and inside information about all sorts of prominent people on the forum. Some of the stuff posted could be fodder for a blackmailer, if anybody had that turn of mind, but I decided a long time ago that it's not my job to protect people from the consequences of their vices.

My friend Steen contributed his opinion about "Mr. Tate" as, "Kind of creepy at times, although quite nice. But creepy. Don't annoy him." Steen would be a good one to ask about Terry B.'s reliability, and I could dish with him about the creepiness. He could help me decide if I should take the contract or not, if one is actually offered. And, besides, it would be good to see him, we haven't gone for lunch in ages. I text Steen a message saying that we need to talk very soon, and I'd be happy to treat him to lunch at the Maxwell for the privilege. 

And that's about all I can do at the moment....Ah, the gym bag beckons! I haven't rifled through that for clues yet. Putting it up on the kitchen table, I unzip the bag and pull it wide open. 

I'm hit by the sharp smell of new leather. Mmmmm. That's nice. Under it is a faint whiff of Holmes' cologne, and I wrinkle my nose. Whatever. I pull out the jangley bits of leather and the cuffs. Gorgeous stuff, all brand-new except for the creases and sweat stains from me, and all stamped "Fleet Ilya" in big letters; a quick googling shows which shops carry that designer, but that's not going to be any help at all, is it? I can't just waltz into Coco de Mer and ask sweetly to see their list of recent bondage gear customers.

Feeling around the empty bag doesn't turn up anything else, either, and there's nothing on the bottom. A tag inside informs me that it was made, like everything, in China of 100% cotton and is exclusive of decoration. Well, damn. What did I expect, that he'd be so stupid as to leave a credit card receipt inside? People who can afford to pay for the company of people like me generally aren't idiots, although I have had to put up with a few noxious exceptions...and one of them is my booking for tonight...thinking about that is a little depressing, actually. The last time I had a meeting with this one, he mentioned what a cute little pony I would make....ick...

Steen rescues me from that line of reverie by answering my text: _Luv 2 c u 1-ish ok?_ Ha, I knew he wouldn't pass up being treated to lunch. I text back that 1-ish is fine, and head for some clothes.

We arrive at nearly the same time in front of the Maxwell, and I give a squeal and launch myself into his arms; Steen is one of the few men I can do that to without knocking him down flat. He is a big, handsome blond bear of a man, raised in Australia, and he is always complaining about how nobody here in Mother England knows how to hug properly, so I usually make a point of hanging all over him and being inappropriate.

A kiss on the cheek, and we are seated in a reasonably private corner of the dining room. I'm getting ready to launch into the reason I need to talk to him, when Steen leans forward and says earnestly, _"I know why you need to talk to somebody today, Angelica. Believe me, I understand. I was shocked when I heard about it, too."_ He reaches over and takes up my hand, giving a gentle squeeze. 

Huh?

 _"Well, I'm glad to have your sympathies, I really am, except that I don't know what you're talking about."_ I give his hand a double-squeeze back and pick up my salad fork. Steen gives me a searching look and says slowly, _"Then you haven't heard what happened last night?"_

_"No, what?"_

_"Calypso is dead. She was murdered."_

I put my fork down and reach for Steen's hand across the table again. _"What? Are you sure?"_ I feel myself go very cold, my stomach flips with shock. I didn't know her well, but I knew her. Calypso was one of the most successful independent escorts in London, an amazing, beautiful woman. Arab princes hired her for months at a time to go around the Continent with them; for ordinary men, she had a waiting list a mile long. We all wanted to be Calypso.

 _"It was all over the papers this morning. Somebody shot her late last night, she was in her car, going home from a meeting with a client. The driver said that as they were stopped at a traffic light, a man rode up on a bicycle and shot her through the window. They've got a description from the driver, but there were no other witnesses, and no leads on it yet."_ He shakes his head. _"Who would want to off Calypso? She was the nicest person you could meet. She just liked making people happy...."_

 _"Jealous wife,"_ I say grimly, and pick up my fork again. Escort work, even if you are at the top of the heap, is still a risky business. If you aren't dodging lethal STD's, you are looking over your shoulder for crazed clients or their psycho wives and girlfriends. 

We pick at our salads and talk more about Calypso, helping each other come to terms with it. I am still deeply shocked. It's not the first time somebody I've known has died suddenly, but it's the first time I've known a murder victim. I fervently hope they catch the bastard who did it. 

Eventually, we tire of the topic, and during a lull I get around to asking Steen what he thinks about Terry B.'s ident of "Mr. Tate" as Mycroft Holmes. Steen verifies it, and adds some more; Holmes is a civil servant, one of the little guys in suits that keep the government ticking along. I pull out my phone and start to google the name "Mycroft Holmes," when Steen grabs it and quickly cancels the search. _"What did you do that for?"_ I say crossly. 

Steen hands me back my phone with a wagging finger. _"Don't you know about name searches? People can have alerts tied to name searches so they know when they are being searched, and your phone will cheerfully tell them everything about you. If you have to look him up like that, for goodness sake use a public computer at the library or something!"_

_"He's a civil servant, Steen. Probably a glorified accountant. Why would an accountant need to have name search alerts?"_

_"Because he's a government accountant, Angelica. Who knows? Besides, don’t you think it’s a little odd that some petty bureaucrat would make enough money to hire Agency escorts? I don't know about you, but I don't come cheap,"_ Steen smirks, knowing what I'm going to say next.

_"You know very well that I don't come at all."_

_"That's because you have a witholding complex."_

_"No, it means I'm not as big a whore as you!"_ Steen likes it when I sass him. 

A dessert tray is brought by and waved away by both of us; we get coffees instead, and Steen asks me, _"So why the sudden curiosity about Mr. Touch-me-not Tate? He doesn’t fancy you ladies, you know."_

I tell Steen that Holmes has engaged me three times running now, and about the possibility of the three-month contract. His eyes get wide, and I'm having a hard time deciphering his expression. He's surprised, and envious, but trying to be nonchalant. And something else...angry? Hurt, judging by how the edges of his mouth tighten downward. Steen leans back in his chair, disengaging from me, and says, _"Wow! Just, wow. I guess the bloke wants to try something a little different, eh? That's great for you, that's really good. You've only been hustling for a year and someone wants you on retainer, now, that's something."_ He gives me a forced smile and sips his latte.

Great. How could I be so stupid? It dawns on me that my friendship with Steen is very much about his playing wise-big-brother to my silly-little-sister. Being hired on retainer is sort of the Holy Grail of escort work, something I know Steen has never been offered—and to add insult to injury, it’s with a client that Steen identifies as on his turf.

I really can be a complete naïf sometimes. He was the exact wrong person to go to for advice. I should've kept my mouth shut. We finish our coffees in near-silence, and Steen does a gosh-will-you-look-at-the-time maneuver, thanks me for lunch, and then pretty much ducks and runs. 

I sit there amidst the ruins of our lunch, and feel like shit. I'm mad at Steen for being so insecure, and I'm mad at myself for misjudging him. And I'm mad at the world for being the kind of place where beautiful, gentle women aren't safe from homicidal maniacs.

I shake it off, settle the bill and get out of there. I only have four hours to do some sleuthing before I have to get ready for work tonight. 

Steen had a good point about using an anonymous computer. There’s an internet café just a few blocks from the Maxwell, so I take my daily exercise and do a brisk walk there. Cyberia, as it’s called, promises caffeinated delights of all sorts, but all I want to buy is a few hours of computer time. 

The place is funky and faded, the computer equipment is outdated and sticky with spilled cappuccino, but the internet connection is fast, and there’s live music by a chatty harpist. It’s not a bad way to spend Sunday afternoon, ferreting out information. And boy, do I have to ferret. I think of one angle after another, trying to get anything on this Mycroft Holmes. It’s almost as if he doesn’t quite exist. There are no photos at all. He comes up as a member of The Diogenes Club, but according to the internet, he doesn’t own a car or a flat or a house. Nothing is registered anywhere. He’s not on any social or business networking. He’s an alum of Oxford, but all the details are blank. I do dig up an office address, though, and I’m pretty chuffed about that. 

And then I hit the jackpot. I thought to search the council records in all of the more posh districts around London, the nice leafy neighborhoods, because it seemed to me that he would like someplace like that better than a modern flat or rooms at a hotel. And it pays off! I find a request for variance that Mr. Holmes’ solicitor submitted on his behalf several years ago, concerning an ancient oak tree that infringed the public throughway. Holmes won the variance, jolly good for him, but what thrills me is that the council records list his home address.

I barely have time to jot down the information, though, before the computer screen goes blank. I poke a few buttons, since I still have some minutes on the time card, but nothing. Looks like the system crashed completely, which is what you get for using junk like this. I make sure and tell the barista on my way out the door about the crash, and he shrugs; apparently every computer on the router went down at the same time, probably some virus.

I leave the cafe feeling pretty good. I’ve got home and work addresses for Holmes, and what club he hangs out at in-between. I still have two hours to kill, so I think about burning some money to hire a cab and do some sight-seeing. It’s Sunday afternoon, right? People are usually at home on Sunday afternoons…

I consider faking a foreign accent when I tell the driver that I want to go sight-seeing through some nice neighborhoods. I can do some very convincing accents, but I decide it's not worth the effort, and I'm right; I can tell he could care less as long as I'm paying him. 

It's a nice ride. I forget how pretty the leafy parts of the City are, and what a beautiful thing a well-tended garden can be. I miss that about not living in the country anymore, having a little plot to plant and tend. Sara says I can put out all the window boxes I care to at her place, but it’s not the same at all as a real garden, and here in these districts they have Real Gardens. 

I tell the driver to slow way down, but not stop as we enter the lane where Holmes’ house is; I want to get a good look without being too obvious. I am going to assume that there are security cameras everywhere, because this is the type of place where they have them. And, to be fair, they probably need them. 

This man definitely is not just a civil servant, to be able to live here. The house that matches the address I found online is a gem of a small Tudor country home, tucked far back and nearly hidden by manicured hedges, and fronted by a sprawling, enormously gnarled oak tree that overhangs the street and leaves little doubt that this is the place. 

We've passed the property by all too quickly, before I could see any details, so I tell the driver to turn around down the road and go back. He obediently heads the cab back again, and I unbuckle and slide over in the back seat so I can crane my neck more effectively as we pass the house. I catch glimpses of an elegant, lovely old place, with ivy-covered walls, leadlight windows, the works. Nice. It suits him. 

Of course, now that I've seen the outside of the house, I am dying to see the inside even more. Stalking is like that, it's addicting. I know I should rein it in. A little indulgence keeps the beast content, but too much just makes the thing stronger. 

Although, you know, a third pass would probably go unnoticed; the lane is completely deserted. I ask the driver to do one more pass, and he pulls into a driveway down the lane to do a turn-about, when I notice a shiny black car cruising slowly up behind us. I feel a tingle of fear go up the back of my thighs, and quickly tell my driver to forget it, to go back the way we came. He grumbles about women and making up their bloody minds, but he does it. 

And the black car follows us. The tingle has gone from my thighs to my stomach, which is now doing flip-flops. I do my calming breaths and try to keep from panicking. Panic turns people into stupid animals who do stupid things. There is nothing here to panic about. The security cameras probably caught us doing a slow drive-by, and the men in the car are doing their job to be intimidating. They are just following, not shooting or trying to run us off the road or anything. This is intimidation, and it is working quite well, I must say.

The black car is still following us, closely, as we re-enter the City and the traffic picks up. I'm calmed down enough to start thinking furiously about how to get out of the taxi without being spotted or, terrifyingly, accosted by whomever is in the black car. 

My driver has noticed that we are being followed, of course, and also how I keep glancing in the rear mirror at the black car gliding behind us. Finally he gives me a bit of a lopsided grin in the mirror, and says, _"Well, miss, would it be worth an extra bit of a tip for me to lose them?"_

 _"YES!"_ I sit back and fasten my seat-belt once more, and he suddenly turns into a stunt-driver. We roar off and leave the black car choking on our fumes! They must have been taken completely by surprise, because they don't immediately follow as we duck and dodge around the traffic, and we seem to lose them pretty quickly.

Just as I asked, my driver takes me right back to where I started. I pay him his fare quickly, with a generous tip on top of it, and hurry to merge with a mob of other young people sauntering down the sidewalk. Nobody ever minds it if a friendly, pretty blonde joins them, a fact that I have used to my advantage more than once. I see the black car go by a few minutes later, cruising slowly, but I'm certain I'm invisible, a tree hiding in the forest. I can't stop grinning all the way home. Mischief managed.

Much later in the evening, I am sitting in a comfy chair in a lovely hotel room with a lovely drink in my hand, and making myself smile at the inane jokes of one of the stupidest men to ever bear a well-known title. The client says he has a surprise for me tonight, and can hardly wait to share it. He trots out a black gym bag, exactly like the one Holmes sent me home with, and I nearly lose myself in a giggle-fit. Really, do they issue these things at the store or something?

The client mistakes my suppressed mirth for girlish excitement, and theatrically opens out the bag with a flourish, producing...a collar and bridle. With, God help me, twee leather ears on it, and a bit.

And a riding crop. 

The twit is grinning ear-to-ear, and I am really thinking it would be quite nice if the bridle is for him and not me, but I don't hold out much hope. 

Much, much later in the evening, I am soaking my poor tender parts in a hot bath at home, and I am seriously considering having my manager amend my online profile page to stipulate, No riding crops. There are going to be bruises on my backside and thighs for quite a few days, I imagine. At least the client tipped me well for my troubles, but it's almost not worth the money; I won't be sitting comfortably for a while.

A three-month exclusive with Holmes is starting to sound pretty attractive, kind of like a working holiday, if you know what I mean. I sort of hope that he will indeed offer me one, but then I remember how anxious he made me feel, and the intimidating black car, and I'm back to wondering what I really do think. 

I decide that since tomorrow is Monday and I don't have any lunch-time meetings, I might as well see if I can spot Holmes going in at his office. I might even be able to get into the building, if the security isn't too tight and I'm clever enough. I'll have to come up with some minimal kind of disguise, although I'm not too worried that he'll recognize me. I found out pretty quickly in this business that most clients don't really see their escorts--they don't remember the face, at any rate. Maybe other parts, although even that is debatable. I don't think we quite count as real people to them.


	3. "Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power." ~ Oscar Wilde

It's a beautiful morning for a Monday--for any day, really. I'm not a morning person, but it's hard to be sulky when the sun is shining and birds are chirping at the window. 

I'm excited about my plans for today; I've never considered trying to cruise into a government building before, although I've weaseled my way into loads of other places where I wasn't supposed to be--nightclubs, private parties, corporate headquarters, that sort of thing. This shouldn't be any different. It's going to be fun. 

When I yawn my way into the kitchen, it's still fairly early--early for me, anyway. I'm already dressed, business-casual in linen slacks and blazer, my pale blond hair neatly pinned up, and nearly no makeup. I look like a human blancmange, ready to blend into any crowd. I just want to grab a quick cup of tea and some toast before I catch the tube for Whitehall.

Sara has other plans. She is still sitting at the breakfast table when I come in; she must be on the second shift at the animal hospital, and I can tell from her expectant expression that she wants to Have a Little Chat. She does this occasionally; it's an endearing character flaw that she is convinced that she knows best. Probably comes of being five years older than I am.

She gives me a once-over as I come in, and she looks surprised. _"Hey, you look great! Do you have a job interview?"_

I shake my head and put the kettle on. _"No. Why would I? I already have a job."_

 _"I meant, for a real job. And I made you breakfast, it's right here."_ She pushes a loaded plate across the table and points to the chair in front of it. God, she must really want to Have a Little Chat, she's been cooking all morning. I make a face.

 _"Sairs, you know I can't face a plate of fry-up first thing in the morning! I'll be sick. And I already have a real job, thank you very much."_ The kettle boils quickly, and after a splash of milk, I'm mashing around the tea-bag to get it ready faster so I can get out the door quicker. _"I make almost as much as you do. The pay cheque might be irregular, but if I want more money all I have to do is let my manager know that I'll take harder assignments."_ I sit down with my tea to pick a little at the toast and some of the bacon on the plate. Actually, I ease my backside into the chair, because I'm still just a touch sore from that meeting last night. I'm a softy about pain, which is why I don't usually take the "harder assignments." There are girls who genuinely enjoy that sort of thing, so why deprive them? 

Sara makes a sour face and flips the front page of the morning newspaper over at me. The headline screams, CALL-GIRL MURDER SPREE: NEW JACK THE RIPPER?

My stomach clenches down around the tea and toast, and I spread my hands flat to keep them from shaking as I scan the article to see if I know the new victim. I'm a little ashamed of myself to feel relieved that I don't know her at all. The grainy photo, obviously taken from an online gallery of girls-for-hire, shows a pretty brunette in black lace lingerie. I've never seen her before; her working name was Tanya, and they don't give her real one yet. There is a photo of Calypso as well, giving her real name as Alice Potts. I never knew that. No wonder she went by Calypso.

The latest murder happened last night, almost exactly like Calypso's the night before, only the assailant was on foot and waiting in the shadows of a hedgerow near her flat. The gunman obviously knew where she lived, and where the cab was likely to pull up when dropping her off. 

_"So."_ Sara addresses the mug of tea she has wrapped in her hands. _"So, are you still so sure you have a real job that you want? I mean, this,"_ she looks up and waves her hand at the newspaper spread out in front of me. _"Doesn't that scare the hell out of you? As if it wasn't already bad enough!"_

I toss the paper back on top of the rest of it. Here we go again. _"Bad enough? What is already bad enough?"_

 _"You know what I mean. It's already a risky business, what you do. You like to think nothing bad is ever going to happen to you, but it could. Those girls,"_ Sara gestures at the newspaper again, _"they probably didn't think anything bad could happen to them. It's not like you don't have options, Angelica. You don't have to do this for a living, you could finish your degree and get a really good job. You're good with people, you'd make a great therapist or human resources person or something."_

She's leaning further and further forward, and I'm leaning back in my chair, finally crossing my arms in front of me. It's the zillionth time we've had this discussion, and I've no patience for it this morning. 

_"Whatever would you do for entertainment if I worked some 'real job' like you? And how would I keep from dropping dead of sheer boredom myself?"_ It comes out snarkier than I intended, and Sara's cheeks flush slightly.

She stands up abruptly, lips pressed in a thin line. _"Fine. Whatever. I guess it doesn't really matter if you get yourself killed; it's not like you're doing anything useful with your life, are you?"_ She launches herself toward the door, grabbing coat and bag along the way, as I sit in stony silence. 

Bitch. She can be so controlling. I know she means well and so forth, but she can be such a bitch about it. I gulp down the rest of my tea, looking at the front page of the paper again. Two escorts murdered in as many days on their way back home after meeting a client, both shot by a man with a handgun. Calypso was an independent, it looks like Tanya worked for an upper-end escort agency called Society Services. Both were...shot in the forehead, and at close range. That means that the gunman had to be looking them in the eyes when he did it. Definitely a psychopath. Former client? Did they suspect something was wrong with him, was he a little creepy, or were they shocked when they looked over and saw that face through the car window?

It's trendy to not have faith in the police these days, or much of anything else, but my father was in law enforcement; he was a good policeman, he really tried. He was no perfect human being, but he tried. I have faith that this psycho will be caught. For one thing, contrary to popular belief, Scotland Yard is actually pretty competent--but especially, because serial killers want to get caught. They're hungry to be noticed and acknowledged, it's part of their sickness. 

And I hope they catch this sick fuck soon, because I really am beginning to get a little scared. 

Well, there's nothing I can do about it, except try to be alert. Daddy taught Sara and I some basic self-defense, and I took it further to a brown belt in karate. Not any use against a gun, I know, but it does make you more confident, and sometimes confidence can make all the difference.

I stand up and scrape the plate of greasy breakfast into the bin. Nice thought, dear sister, but no points. I take one last look at myself in the mirror beside the door, practicing my pleasantly bland "nobody special" look, and then it's off to see what I can do to gain access to the Halls of Power. Well, the bastions of the civil servants, anyway.

# # #

By late morning, I am blending in easily with the crowds of purposeful-looking types that populate the government district that everyone just calls "Whitehall," after the main street. There are a few tourists here and there, and enough soldiers at station so that you know this is not just any busy office district. The buildings are all historic, and many of them are beautiful as well.

It turns out to be easy enough to get into the building where Holmes has his office--you just have to present a picture identification, and stand still in a plexiglass pod whilst they scan you for weapons and whatnot. And let them do a tiny search in your handbag. And answer a few questions about your purpose there, and do you have an appointment, and with whom? I have a story ready about being called in as a specialist consultant, naming a fellow with an office just down the hall from Holmes; if the security protocol requires that I have to be escorted to that office, my fail-safe plan is to suddenly remember that my appointment is for tomorrow afternoon, and beat a hasty retreat. If all else fails, act like a flutter-headed blonde, and people will dismiss you as impossibly dim and no threat at all. Being able to cry on cue helps as well.

But no theatrics are required; the bored woman behind the security desk waves me across the bustling atrium toward the row of lifts, and I pile in with half a dozen other people. My mouth is dry, from excitement and fear, but I feel like clapping and cheering for myself. Damn, but I am good!

I exit alone on the sixth floor, quite nearly managing to step out of the lift with a steady pace instead of a leap. There doesn't seem to be anybody about at all, but I'm still on high alert. I can't be seen acting suspiciously, I have to act like I know where I am going and what I am doing here.

Fail. Total fail. I haven't gotten more than a few doors down the hallway before a dark-haired woman in a black dress stops me and asks if I need help finding someone. Her pretty eyes are narrowed with suspicion. I can feel the color draining from my face, as my stomach sinks into my shoes. I stammer out, _No, I am just looking for the ladies' room?_ She points out the way, and I scamper off like it's an emergency. Which it is, because I am feeling sick to my stomach. 

I hide in a shiny white stall and lean my head against the closed door. What the hell am I doing here? This is insane, I really am mentally ill. Not just a little bit, either. I'm stalking a client at his work. This is not the behavior of a normal, sane person. Sara wouldn't do something like this. 

I do my slow breathing and gradually calm down. Yes, of course I'm a bit mad. That's why I majored in abnormal psychology; one of my instructors used to joke that most of the people who take up the study of mental illness are just trying to find out what's wrong with themselves.

I flush the toilet, even though I haven't been able to bring myself to pee, and take a long time at the mirror, washing my hands and smoothing my hair. I find my confidence again, and I take it with me.

Ms. Black Dress is no-where in sight when I emerge, thankfully. I scoot down the hallway briskly, taking myself past the door with a little brass name-plate beside it, "M. Holmes." I feel a little thrill in the pit of my now-calm stomach, but the door is firmly closed, and looking up at the high transom windows above it doesn't reveal anything. I pause just past the door and bend down to adjust the buckle on one shoe, listening carefully, but there are no sounds at all coming from the office. Probably he's not even in.

Oh, well. Remembering the black car that tailed my taxi yesterday, I decide that a second pass would be foolish. I head for the lift, passing a small herd of paunchy, grey-headed men coming the other way. One of them looks vaguely familiar, but I know he won't recognize me. They never do.

I have the lift to myself, and I lean back against the humming wall, feeling deflated and very, very foolish. All this stress and excitement, for what? To walk by the office door of some guy with a trust-fund income and a civil service post. Really. If I were hearing about this, I would think it was pathetic. I'm the one doing it, and I think it's pathetic.

The lift doors open at the atrium mezzanine level, and I have a sudden surge of prickles up the back of my thighs. I don't want to be in this lift even one second longer. As a group of young men with briefcases get in, I do a ballerina-leap out, and I'm not-quite-running away toward the stairs to the floor level. I just want to get out of here, now. 

Stop. Acting like a ninny is going to just draw attention that I don't want. I make myself stop and breathe and take in my surroundings; I place my hands on the smooth metal railing that tops the low wall around the gallery where I'm standing, and look down at the people below. So much quiet bustling, so much purposeful busy-ness. These are the men and women in suits that keep this country running, and their voices hum like a beehive.

There are little clusters of people conversing, on their way here or there. I can see that a lot of informal business gets done in this bright, open space. Over there, a slim, balding man is holding court, relating a humorous story to a small audience of younger men; I can't make out his precise words because he's facing away, but his tone is dryly witty, and he punctuates his story with small gestures of the black umbrella in his left hand. There is some quiet laughter from his audience as the story ends, and the story-teller turns slightly to show his profile--and it is Mycroft Holmes. Gotcha!

Homes notices an older man with a grey mustache passing nearby, and moves toward him, the audience of youngsters following along behind like a shoal of fish. Pilot fish. I grin at the thought. Holmes moves around like a lazy shark, with his entourage of little pilot fish grooming away at him.

The older gent and Holmes greet each other warmly, and I realize that this is another big shark, since he, too, has his own shoal of little fishes. The sharks exchange pleasantries, the pilot fish groom each other anxiously and wait. Holmes stands with the umbrella planted in front of him, both hands on top. He looks to me to be wary of this other shark, who stands with both hands deep in pockets; the classic sign of someone who has something to hide. They are both smiling at each other, and talking with friendly animation. I can catch only little snatches of the conversation at first, then more as the grey mustache begins booming more loudly, maybe out of annoyance, even though both sharks are still smiling away at each other. There is much talk about a wedding and reception this Saturday, at Stoke Park. I know that resort! I was hired to go for a weekend foursome there last autumn. Nice place, very nice. Big beds.

Finally, the sharks shake hands with a promise to meet again on Saturday and part ways heartily, although the look that Holmes sends after the other man's retreating back is anything but pleasant. But then he tosses his umbrella over one shoulder like an infantry rifle, turns to his waiting pilot fish and jovially mentions a nearby restaurant. The idea is received enthusiastically, and Holmes glides off with his shoal.

I realize that I have been staring at this little scene below, and not stealthily. Anybody who saw me would know that I was staring at Holmes. I look quickly around, but there is no one near me at all; there are three women on a low bench at the other end of the gallery having a private conversation and texting on their phones, but I don't think they've noticed that I'm even here. One of them might--might!--be Ms. Black Dress from the sixth floor, but I can't be sure, as her face is bent over her phone.

It's time to get out of here, but not fleeing in panic. Slow but purposeful, I stride down the stairs, across the atrium. I give a nod to the security-desk woman, and then I'm out the door. For about two seconds, I consider strolling 'round to the restaurant that I heard Holmes mention, but immediately veto myself. I've had enough emotional rollercoastering for the day. What I need right now is a cup of tea, a couple of cigarettes, and some time to think.

# # #

Come Thursday I'm still thinking, and haven't come to any conclusions. I'm at a lunchtime meeting with a nice man named Mr. Li, and I am bored out of my mind. He is taking forever to come, but he won't allow me to help things along. Chinese guys are funny, they take it as a point of pride how long they can keep pounding away. They just keep going and going...honestly, it's really boring, but when it's all over you can get a huge tip if you tell them that you have never seen a man go at it so long and so fiercely. They love to hear that, it makes them feel virile.

So I while away the time by thinking about Holmes. I still don't quite get it. It's like the man with me at the hotel room is a completely different person from the one at work. Different voice, different expression, different body language. Everything. Could he be a multiple personality? It's really, really rare, but it would account for the creepiness factor. What an interesting thought! I need to study up this afternoon, because I have another meeting with "Mr. Tate" tonight at eight o'clock, at the Milestone in Kensington. I've already picked out the dress that I'll wear--no more pencil skirts!--and packed the little black gym bag. I'll need a good bath, of course, and probably shave again. 

Mr. Li suddenly buries his hands into my hair and starts pulling it hard, grunting softly. I swing into my I-might-be-having-an-orgasm moaning and sighing routine, and he seems quite pleased with himself, relaxing happily. Some compliments, a few cuddles, a nice tip--the Agency handles the actual payment with a bank transfer, no crass bill-counting for me--and I'm dressed and out the door. Mr. Li took a little longer than his allotted time with me, but the Agency doesn't schedule us tightly for just that reason. It pays to be generous with your clients.

# # #

Six hours and forty-three minutes later, I arrive at the Milestone, armed with a mental check-list for Dissociative Identity Disorder, the new name for multiple personalities. Swinging at my side, the black gym bag jangles discreetly, the only noise in the quiet, wood-paneled lobby; even my steps are hushed by the cut-pile carpets underfoot. Everything is very 19th century, and very, very posh. The clerk behind the check in desk gives me a hard look as I stand waiting for the lift to arrive, but I guess I pass muster because he doesn't challenge me. I'm glad I wore the outfit I did, a sky-blue silk wrap dress, and some nice silver jewelry inlaid with turquoise. It's a pretty shade of blue, nearly matches my eyes. 

Seventh floor this time. I'm not as nervous as the last time, actually hardly at all, and I think it's due entirely to my stalker activities. Maybe stalking gives me a feeling of power over the situation, like I'm in control of at least a tiny bit of it. I know where you live, where you work, who you are, mister! Whatever the reason, it's nice to not walk up to the door feeling like a quivering mess. 

_"Angel. Come in."_ Holmes is wearing a grey pinstripe suit tonight, and the music on the stereo is Handel, but otherwise the drill is exactly the same. I place the gym bag on a near-by side table, and take in the room whilst Holmes pours himself a drink. Very elegant room, very Victorian, and I can tell at a glance why this place might justify the price he's paying for it tonight. The center of the far wall is dominated by a huge, four-poster bed. Hmmmm. That presents quite a few interesting possibilities, doesn't it?

Holmes goes to sit down in a tawny gold Queen Anne chair, but has to first move the black umbrella leaned against the arm. He hangs it by the ridged handle on the empty coat-tree in the corner, and waves me to stand in front of the chair as he sits down. He seems less agitated tonight, maybe because I'm calmer, or maybe it has nothing to do with me. Whatever the reason, we're both more relaxed. I strike a pose for him, and stand absolutely still. 

As he's doing his looking thing, I mentally run down the checklist for DID. The big tell-tale is apparently memory lapses between personality switching, and that's just not possible to check on a casual basis like this. Some of the other traits do fit, though, and it might--

 _"Undress."_ Holmes says softly, and I focus back on him and move to untie my wrap dress.

Abruptly, he says, _"No!"_ I stop, and look at him, uncertain. Holmes rises, and reaches for the ties himself. Carefully, he unwraps me from the dress, and it flutters down to pool on the floor around my feet. My lingerie is blush-pink tonight, with frothy silk lace on the front of the bra and knickers, one of my favorite sets. He walks around and around me, fingertips barely brushing across my body, a touch light as a feather. I shudder as one hand trails across my nipples, and I'm sure that his eyes crinkle slightly in a subtle smile. Around he goes, slowly, his face calm and contemplative, like he's memorizing bone and muscle and skin. 

When he gets to my backside, I notice that he frowns and makes a little displeased noise deep in his throat. I remember the riding crop from Sunday night; I guess the marks haven't all healed yet.

He waves a hand at me, then. _"Off with all of it,"_ he says, going to the side table and opening the gym bag. I oblige, and by the time he has gotten the harness out and untangled, I am bare. I am watching him closely now, but only out of the corner of my eyes. I'm trying to discern if he is really manifesting a different personality, or just being different because it's a different situation. We all do the latter, I think, to one extent or another; what if he just has a social persona that is very different from his private self? And am I seeing his private self, or just another variation of his social mask? The idea fascinates me, until I notice that, as he carefully and precisely lays the leather straps on my skin and tightens the buckles, he is watching me watching him, and he is amused. 

I blush a little and look away completely, keeping even the corners of my eyes to myself. 

Once the harness and cuffs are secured, Holmes taps my shoulder and looks meaningfully at the big, four-post bed, and I go turn down the sheets and sit on the edge of it. I start to feel more anticipation, but not anxiety. Something certainly has shifted for me. 

He turns down the lighting, and removes his suit coat, like before, and like before he guides me down into the position he wants me secured in; tonight I am spread-eagled face-down, one limb tethered to each post and a stack of pillows under my hips. It's not physically uncomfortable, at all, but psychologically it's challenging to have your legs spread like that with no defense. I can feel cool air wafting across places where air rarely wafts, and it feels just a little delicious. I can hear him disrobing again, no doubt the exact same ritual as before. I wonder if the ritual is to reduce anxiety, or if he just likes to do things in the same way. I guess the proof of it would be if doing it differently made him anxious. Hmm.

I'm tempted to take him up on that extended contract just to poke around and see what happens--if he offers one to me, of course. 

I feel the mattress shift as he sits down between my spread legs, and I feel a little more air move across my inner thighs. He must be close between my legs, looking. I can feel his breath, and I have an impulse to giggle at the image in my head of him down there "playing Doctor." After a few minutes, I feel a fingertip carefully exploring around, sliding on the gathering wetness. I didn't know my fanny was going to be in for such a close scrutiny tonight, but I'm glad I gave it a clean shave just a few hours ago. 

The one finger becomes two, and bits are pulled aside to reveal other bits. Good grief, he is playing Doctor after all. Well, it's not like it hurts, he's being quite gentle for the most part. It's just very odd to be subjected to such a thorough spelunking.

Gradually, he starts to run his hands over my thighs and bum as well, his fingers lingering here and there on the bruises, like you might finger a chip on a teacup. Then I feel lips and tongue touching my skin as well, tasting me all over. And teeth, not always gentle. Oh, please don't turn into a biter, I think. Biting is a deal-breaker for me. I mean biting, not hard nipping. I had a client once who unexpectedly bit me, and I'll never forget the feeling of his teeth actually slicing into my skin; it hurt like hell, and I screamed bloody murder. The man apologized up and down and swore it wouldn't happen again, but he still got himself blacklisted from the Agency. I had to have a tetanus shot.

Holmes seems to be keeping it reasonable, although there are a few spots that I know from experience that will show bruises tomorrow. If he starts to go for the neck, I'll ask him to stop; I can't have marks where they will show. 

His intensity is ramping up again now, and I can feel the length of his body pressing against mine, hard, though the cloth of his undershirt and pants. His tongue is exploring the curve of my ear in a very delicate way, alternating with hard nips, and I have my face buried in the mattress, trying not to moan. My ears are a huge erogenous zone for me; I can almost come just from what he's doing right now, and I am working to keep myself distracted. I don't orgasm with clients, not for reals, that's just how I keep the boundaries in place. Right now, though, it's taking an act of will to keep from toppling over the edge. 

I hear a faint ringing noise, growing louder. It goes on and on, stops for a moment or two, then goes on and on again. Holmes doesn't seem aware of it at first, then he raises his head and growls, _"Bugger it!"_

He leaps off me, and hurries over to where his clothing is. My face is still buried in the mattress, but I hear him, slightly breathless, snap, _"What is it?"_ and there is the tinny murmur of a man's voice. _"The treadmill, of course!"_ Holmes answers primly.

I can't believe Holmes is answering his phone. It happens; I had one old fart who continued to gently slide in and out of my arse whilst chatting with his wife about the grocery list. It was surreal, but I suppose it had as much to do with his need to be a naughty boy as anything else. 

But Holmes goes to such lengths to set the scene and enjoy himself in such a specific way, it's hard to believe he would even leave his phone on, much less answer it right in the middle of things. The caller must be important, then, but Holmes is talking to him in a very familiar way. I wonder if it's his boyfriend.

 _"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?"_ Long pause. _"I'm not a magician, Sherlock. In any case it's late, there's nothing I can do at the moment."_ Pause. Exasperated sigh. _"Oh, all right. Yes. I'll see to it myself."_ There is a beep as he hangs up, and a long groan.

And I hear him getting dressed. He's leaving? I crank my head around to catch a glimpse of the other end of the room and sure enough, Holmes is getting dressed, quickly, and obviously with great annoyance. He'd better not forget about me. I don't want to shout out, not in the mood he seems to be in, but I don't want to be stuck here until the maid comes in the morning, either. I wait until he's got his shoes tied and is slipping his coat on, and then I quietly call out, _"Um, help?"_

He looks up, surprised. Yep, he had forgotten all about me. _"Oh, good lord. So sorry."_ He hurries over and unsnaps one of my wrists from the bedpost. _"Family emergency."_ And, whoosh, he's gone.

I unsnap the rest of my tethers and lay sprawled on the bed for a minute, listening to the Handel rippling away on the stereo. Despite the interruption, I am still so turned on that I feel shaky. My god, what that man was doing to my ears. I am simply going to have to take care of myself right now, this minute. I wish I had some of my favorite solo toys with me, but I can certainly make do with my own hands.

I sit up to fluff the pillows strewn about the bed to make a comfortable nest, and as I do so, my eye falls on the coat tree in the corner by the door.

He forgot his umbrella. It suddenly occurs to me how much that stylish whanghee handle resembles one of my favorite g-spot toys. It really does, with its knobby ridges, and curve--some differences in angle and size, but really, not much. Not much different at all...and the length of the shaft would give some wicked leverage....

I feel a little sorry for any woman who hasn't learned to love her g-spot; it's like discovering you have an extra clit! The trick is to be thoroughly turned on, so hot you can't hardly think straight, before you start to give it the deep-pressure stroking that feels so incredible. 

And I'm there, right now. I go get the black umbrella off the coat tree, smiling a wicked smile as I heft the handle in my hand. Oh, yes, this is going to feel very nice. 

It does. 

I give myself a thumping good orgasm, pressing and rubbing that whanghee handle inside me against my g-spot; the ridges are absolutely perfect for the job, and it's so nice that I go for two more little ones...light, sighing waves. Heavenly. 

I sprawl back on the pillows, reveling in the afterglow. When my legs have stopped wobbling, I strip off the harness and cuffs and wander into the bathroom to go pee and wipe up. A hot bubble bath sounds lovely, and the tub is a huge claw-foot affair with gilded taps and fluffy towels, screaming pure decadence. I take the umbrella in with me to give it a good washing, but after the bath I decide that I'm not giving it back. I have a feeling that if M. Holmes knew what use it had been put to, he might not want it back. He seems the type. So, I think I'll add it to my toy box at home. 

Giggling at the thought, I open the umbrella and prop it in a corner to dry, and climb back into the huge bed to snuggle down under the covers. The silly man paid for the room for the night, so I might as well have the use of it; I'll be cleared out before the maid service arrives in the morning.


	4. "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts."  ~ William Shakespeare, As You Like It

I keep hearing a faint noise that sounds like my phone. I roll over, burrowing under a soft coverlet, but I can still hear it. Oh, hell, it IS my phone. Staggering sleepily out of the four-poster bed, I go over to the side-table where I parked my bag and paw through it. My phone stops ringing, then starts again, and I sleepily answer it. 

_"Angel!"_ The woman's voice is both angry and full of concern. _"Angel, are you all right?"_

 _"Yeah,"_ I mumble. What the hell time is it anyway? _"Yeah, I'm okay...."_

 _"You did not text in after your meeting."_ My manager's voice is cold as ice. _"I have been trying to get in touch with you for an hour. What happened?"_

 _"The client left, and I fell asleep...I'm really sorry!"_ And that's the truth, I am sorry. I don't like making people angry.

Stiffly, she says, _"I would appreciate it if you could possibly remember to text in after successful completion of each assignment, as you are supposed to. I hope you have not also forgotten that you have a lunch meeting Friday--today, that is! As well as a GFE in the evening. Do you need me to repeat the particulars?"_

 _"No, ma'am, I have them written down. I won't forget,"_ I yawn, covering my mouth so she won't hear. 

_"Angel,"_ her voice softens a bit, _"this is not the time to be lax about your personal safety. We have our little protocols for good reason, please take them seriously, will you?"_

_"Yes, ma'am. I will."_

_"Good night, then."_ Click.

I wish I knew her name; I feel like a schoolgirl calling her "ma'am" all the time, but I can understand why the managers at the Agency insist on anonymity. The laws regarding prostitution in this country are so messed up, that neither I nor my clients are doing anything illegal--but the agency that brokers the deal and makes my appointments, is. Go figure. 

Well, I can either go back to bed here, or call for a minicab and go home...decisions, decisions...that bed is just too inviting. I set the alarm on my phone for a reasonable time, and tumble back in. 

# # #

It's raining miserably in the morning as I leave the hotel, and I am quite glad to have that big, black umbrella with me. I hope Holmes has a spare one so he won't have to go without. I arrive back at the flat in a real downpour, and wet to the knees just from the splashes. I'm going to be so mad if this silk dress is ruined...I'll have to see what miracles the dry-cleaner can do.

Pablo runs over miaowing when I get in the door, but he declines to rub against my legs when he realizes how wet I am. There is a note from my sister on the kitchen table; she wasn't home last night either, it seems. She's been staying over at what's-his-name's place off-and-on all week, probably avoiding me after our little row on Monday. Whatever. 

I feed the cat and myself, and I'm just settled in over a nice, hot mug of tea when Sara calls. I almost don't bother to answer, but change my mind at the last minute. She doesn't even bother to say hello, but clips out, _"Turn on the television. You need to see the morning news."_

 _"Why, hullo and good morning to you, too, sister dear!"_ I chirp at her, fake-cheerful.

 _"Just turn on the damn telly,"_ she snarls, and hangs up.

I put the phone down slowly. I really don't want to, but I go and turn on the morning news. 

Another escort was murdered last night. Shot in the head on her way home, just like Calypso, in a cab, in the middle of the night, and not too far from Kensington. No name given, not even her working name, so I can't tell if I know her or not. God, that could have been me! If I had taken a cab home last night, I might've gone by that way.

They have a drawing of the shooter, taken from descriptions given by the drivers, and it looks like police drawings always do--so generic it could be anybody. The picture shows a white male with a dark beard, glasses, and a dark hoodie drawn up tight around his face. Right. The beard and glasses are probably fake, and how many men with dark hoodies are in this city? Several thousand? 

The sound bite of an interview with the Met detective is the usual vague no comment, no comment, several good leads but no comment at this time. Can't blame them for not wanting to tip their hand. 

And then come the man-on-the-street reaction interviews, and I can't believe it. I want to reach through the screen and slap the smugness off the faces of a couple of them, particularly the arsehole who shrugs and says, _"Well, at least somebody is taking it on themselves to get the trash off the streets."_ Unbelievable. Unbe-fucking-lievable.

# # #

I am still fuming when it comes time for my lunch meeting, and I have to spend a few minutes alone in the ladies' room before I can face my client. Sometimes, when I'm just not feeling it, I have to psych myself up to get through a meeting. I learned a few techniques in acting class that really help you to focus on calling up the feeling you need to project, the person you need to be for that circumstance. I need to be charming for the next hour or so, because this client is actually more interested in my companionship than my body. Strange, but it does happen.

The restaurant we're at, One Twenty One Two, is a foodie haven, and this client, "Mr. Jacobs," loves to take escorts here so he can enjoy pleasant company with his meal, and show off his culinary knowledge to someone who will act as if they appreciate it. He's actually very nice, if a bit tedious, but he's paying me to pay attention so I have to have my head straight. The Gloucestershire Old Spots Pork Belly with Cumberland sauce for starters is delicious, but it leads into nearly twenty minutes of lecture on hog breeds and breed conservancy, and how modern breeding is destroying the finesse of fine English pork. I have a hard time not yawning. 

By the time we are to the Kent Apple and Blackberry Crumble, and the lecture on heirloom apples and how modern apple varieties are soulless and evil, I am ready to scream. It's a relief when "Mr. Jacobs" breaks with routine and delicately asks if I would mind giving him a massage and "some special attention" with the time remaining. I'm definitely game, and after agreeing how much of a tip is required for the extras, we retire to a room at the hotel above. 

I have strong hands, and I've been told I give an excellent massage. The blow job isn't too shabby either, and "Mr. Jacobs" goes back to work, wherever he works, with a smile on his face. 

I have the rest of the afternoon to kill before I have to get ready for my evening assignment, so I decide to hit the gym and work off some of that heavy lunch from the One Twenty, and I also vow to avoid looking at any more news about the latest shooting. I don't want to feel sluggish tonight, or depressed. A GFE can be very demanding.

GFE stands for Girl Friend Experience, and it's basically going out on a paid date. It's always an over-night, although exactly what you do depends on the client and what he likes--it might be an opera, it might be a nightclub, it might be a rugby game. Whatever it is, you have to act like you are having the time of your life. It always ends up back at the client's place, with sex and cuddles and back-rubs and pillow-talk in varying amounts. 

This GFE will be a little different because, according to my manager, the client wants a sexual experience "in an unusual environment." Now, there is an interesting phrase...in an elevator? In an alley? On a bus? I've done it in all those places, but we'll have to see what this fellow means by "unusual," and if it's something I want to go along with. 

# # #

It turns out that his idea of "unusual" is pretty outrageous. He wants to stand-up shag in various places, in plain sight, and jump into his car and drive off before the police arrive to arrest us for indecency! I laugh and tell him he's completely mad, but he promises me a big tip if I'll play along--and to bail me out and pay my fines if we get caught. I give it a few moments and decide, what the hell? It's certainly something different.

I am definitely not feeling into it tonight, but my acting skills carry the day--or night, as it were. My client, "Bobby," is young and good-looking, a Canadian by his accent, although I don't ask. We don't ask personal details, it's part of the protocol. He is obviously just visiting London, though, and wants a tour guide as much as a partner in crime. After a late dinner at a small, exclusive club I've never even heard of, we take off in a little hired Mercedes to do his dream-tour of the City. He has a bucket-list of the usual tourist spots, plus some others. Thank goodness the rain has cleared off, and it's a very mild night.

"Bobby" parks the car as close as possible to the target site, and we get out and stroll hand-in-hand like lovers. When he gives me the high sign, I hoist the hem of my dress up a bit, he undoes his zipper, grabs my bum and we go at it for a few minutes, oblivious to onlookers, then stroll back to the car. Well, in one case, we have to run for the car--we didn't know there would be a policeman in Trafalgar Square just then.

My client is having the time of his life, whooping and laughing as we zoom around. I am having to work at acting like I am having a good time, but he is too excited to notice, I think. I do like knowing that I am going to be part of this guy's once-in-a-lifetime memories, though. I even let him take a few selfies with his phone, although the Agency frowns on photos. All in all, it's okay. But then, at the third stop, I notice something that makes my gut clench up: The security cameras are moving. 

All the tourist spots that we visit have CCTV cameras, and I realize that they are swiveling around to focus on us every time we stop. I mean, when was the last time you saw one move? They never move. They are just there, right? But tonight, the cameras move, following us. It's not like what we are doing is blackmail-worthy or even very graphic; we're not even exposing ourselves, technically. But the cameras are definitely following us.

I point it out to "Bobby" and he is skeptical, maintaining that those CCTV cameras are mostly dummies anyway, and only meant to scare people into behaving. Maybe in Toronto, I tell him, but not here; he still laughs it off, so I decide to let it go and not get my knickers in a knot over it. After all, it's got to be him they are watching, not me. I'm a nobody, whilst he is obviously stinking rich.

We hit all the places on "Bobby's" list over the course of a few hours, but we don't see one single cop after the one we flushed out in Trafalgar Square. However, we are followed by security cameras the whole time; I'm sure that even the ones in the lobby of his posh hotel are following us as we finally head back at the end of the night, but that could be paranoia talking. Up in his room, we put on a movie and I pull some massage oil out of my overnight bag, and give him a little back-rub. He is passed out, snoring, in minutes. 

I tap out a quick text to my manager then, although on a GFE it's technically not required. I'm still trying to make up for last night, I know. Then I snuggle down with "Bobby" the Mad Canuck, and wonder why he doesn't have a real girlfriend to share nights like tonight with, why the bloody cameras were so interested in us, who it was that got shot last night, and if anybody is going to get killed tonight. And I'm grateful that I am here with this snoring lump, who is going to tip me outrageously tomorrow.

# # #

My mad Canadian is disappointed in the morning that I won't extend the GFE for the rest of the weekend. The money he offers is tempting, and I'm flattered that he wants to spend more time with me, but frankly, I'm tired of him, and I have other plans for the day.

I do let him drop me off at the flat, though, because I want one more ride in that cute little Mercedes. He kisses me goodbye, just as if I were really a girlfriend, and he tells me he'll see me later. Right. But he comes through on the tip he promised me, and then some, so the happy hug I give him in return is definitely genuine. 

Sara is home doing her Saturday chores, fighting with the washer-dryer in our tiny laundry room, and giving me the I'm-not-really-talking-to-you-yet treatment; she'll acknowledge my presence, but not give me any eye contact or respond in anything other than monosyllables. It's so stupid, but we do it all the time. She gets mad at me for being selfish or too demanding or whatever, and she'll stay snippy forever until I win her over again. I don't know why we have to do it this way, but we do. 

Since I've had two clients give me unexpectedly generous tips, I decide to start out by stroking her in the wallet. Nice and direct, guaranteed to help change anybody's mind about you. 

_"Hey, I came into some extra cash, and I haven't forgotten that I owe you. Here."_ I peel off some bills and hold them out to her. Sara looks suspiciously at them, and at me, and goes back to fiddling with the door on the washer-dryer, trying to get it latched just right so the thing will work. 

_"You don't owe me any money,"_ she says stubbornly. The door finally clicks locked, and water begins to run. She pours in the laundry suds.

_"Yes, I do. For groceries, and my half of the electric, and the cab fare I had to borrow two months ago. It adds up. Seriously, I've been keeping track."_

Sara gives me a look only an older sister can deliver, and takes the money. _"You never keep track,"_ she says, but she folds up the peace offering and puts it in her jeans pocket. Now she'll let me apologize. 

I subtly slip into the posture of juvenile contrition, hands in pockets, head down and slightly tilted, eyes glancing tentatively between my toes and her face. I don't know why it works, but it does. Well, it works with Sara, anyway. _"Sairs, I'm sorry I was so snarky to you the other morning. I didn't mean it to come out so sarcastic. I'm lucky that you care."_

She wrinkles her nose at me. _"Don't lay it on too thick, it taints the sincerity. And I'm sorry, too."_

And just like that, it's all just fine. In a few minutes, we are sitting in the kitchen and gossiping over tea and biscuits. Sara is amused and aghast by turns at my escapades last night; she squeals over and over, _"Oh, my god, you didn't! Ack!"_ I don't mention the security cameras, but then Sara doesn't bring up the third murder, either. It's nice to feel connected to her again; we don't have a lot of other family left.

We get around to plans for the weekend, and I mention that I've taken today off to go to Buckinghamshire. 

_"Oh? What's there?"_

I give her a wicked grin. _"I'm crashing a wedding at Stoke Park."_

_"Oh, my god, Angelica Elizabeth Talbot! You can't just go and show up at a wedding! That's rude!"_

_"They'll hardly notice me, I'll be quiet as a mouse."_

_"You're spying on someone, aren't you?"_ Sara presses her lips together and makes that big-sister face again. _"You aren't going obsessive again, are you? You remember what happened--"_

 _"It's not like that, not at all. And that was ages ago, I was just a teenager!"_ Well, nineteen; that still counts, doesn't it?

_"Just don't be a stalker, okay? People don't like it. You don't want to get threatened with a restraining order again, do you?"_

_"Nobody's going to have to threaten me with anything, Sara."_ Because I'm a lot more sly about it these days, I silently add. 

# # #

Later, on the train, I finally make myself take out the newspaper that I stowed in my big shoulder-bag and read the write-up on what they're now calling "The Call-Girl Killer." I'm glad that they've dropped the whole Jack-the-Ripper thing, because there's no resemblance outside of the victims being sex workers. The media can be so moronic.

The latest victim is still not being identified by name, but I'm relieved to see that I don't recognize her from the photo. It's another glamor shot from an escort agency gallery, she's in black leather and biting a riding crop; apparently she was a specialist. The article has several photos of the other two victims as well, and sure as anything they printed the sleaziest ones they could find. They even managed to find photos that make classy Calypso look like a slut--the subliminal message being, "See, these are fallen women, they are bad girls, but good girls are safe. You're safe, because you're not like Them." Bastards. But what do you expect? They want to sell more papers, and will do whatever it takes. The media don't set the tastes and standards of society; they just pander to it.

Lost in my ruminations, I'm at Stoke Park before I know it. Now, let's talk about pandering. The resort is an elegant, elite, 300-acre world unto itself. It's a beautiful, bright summer day, and the flower gardens around the grounds are spectacular; the air is heavy with the smell of roses as I walk toward the wide steps of the main entry. Gorgeous place. I really enjoyed my long weekend foursome here last autumn--although I was technically working, it was more like a vacation punctuated by long bouts of very creative sex. I learned a lot. Among other things, I learned my way around the place.

I've timed my arrival perfectly, because there is a flood of guests arriving for the three o'clock wedding, the only event here today. I'm dressed very simply and elegantly, in black slacks, high-heeled sandals, and a bright blue silk shirt, with lots of big curls in my hair so I look "done up" enough to blend in with the high-class clientele despite my low-key makeup. 

I merge in with the crowd, and effortlessly flow with them into the main building, the Mansion, and the whole group is funneled toward the west wing. This is a big crowd, so the nuptials will probably take place outdoors on the Fountain Terrace, with the wedding breakfast in the Fountain Room itself. I was counting on this being a big, noisy crowd, and it is; all the better to hide in. No sign of Holmes yet, but he likely is already here. I think somebody who doesn't like to be touched would rather be early and wait than arrive with the crowd. 

Once I'm in the west wing, I flit down a hallway toward the kitchen and duck into the staff toilet. Securing the door, I open my big shoulder bag and pull out a plain black button-front shirt and black sneakers. Into the bag goes the silk shirt and high heels, and in minutes I am wearing the uniform that the serving staff at Stoke Park wear--trim, solid black from head to toe. Off comes the jewelry, and my hair goes back into a severe coiled bun. Standing on the toilet seat, I can reach the plain panels of the hung ceiling, and I push one aside a bit, shoving my bag up there for safe keeping. 

The only thing missing is the plastic name tag, but I might be able to nick one later. In the meantime, I will just take the dressing-down for "forgetting" it today. I check my look in the little mirror above the sink, and think that it will do nicely as a disguise. People simply do not notice servers at a function; there is too much else going on, too many distractions. Just in case, I shift my posture a little and slouch myself down like I never do in real life, to trim off a few inches of height. 

I join the small army of servers setting things up in the Fountain Room, which commands a good view of the Terrace just outside through wide-open French doors. I am handed a basket of forks to place around, and as I do I crane my neck to look outside and see if I can locate Holmes amidst the milling guests as they are being seated.

It takes a few minutes, but I finally spot him. He is already seated on the groom's side, all the way to the back and on the outside row. He plainly doesn't want to be here; his legs and arms are crossed, and his face looks like he has just swallowed something vaguely unpleasant. He's wearing what looks to be a light grey suit with a subtle touch of rose, a pretty cerulean blue tie and a pale apricot pocket square. The effect is almost obnoxiously cheerful, and he kind of matches the blooming rose bush right beside him; deliberate? Hard to say. I don't get to watch too long; the head server comes and scolds me for staring at the guests, and for forgetting my name-tag, and for going too slowly. She puts me to folding extra serviettes, and I'm glad I don't work here for real.

By the time all the guests are seated for the ceremony, the Fountain Room set up is done and the staff withdraws to wait until it's over and they are needed to start serving reception drinks. I don't want to be hanging around and having to make chit-chat, so I duck out and find a window in the empty Ballroom that overlooks where Holmes is sitting. It's almost painful to watch him, he's hating it so much. During the ceremony, he takes out and checks his pocket watch about a dozen times, and shifts around so much he's nearly fidgeting. Finally, he just closes his eyes with a pained expression, and endures. 

When the ceremony is over, the guests mill around again on the Terrace, and the servers trot around with trays of starters and drinks for the two hours until the wedding breakfast. This is the most ticklish time for me; I want to be near enough to Holmes to watch him, but I don't want to be near enough for him to see me. 

It turns out to be easier than I thought, because he doesn't mingle around at all. Once he has a drink in his hand, Holmes is rooted in place, his back to a column on the shaded side of the Terrace. Although he has a haughty look, he greets everyone pleasantly who comes up to him--but with the kind of smile that shows his back teeth, if you know what I mean. 

The shark with the grey mustache from Monday comes along, with a great deal of fuss and hearty greetings, and Holmes is icily civil in return; it looks to me that showing up at this event is a huge concession on Holmes' part, and he is not happy about it. Mustache-man is happy, though, almost gleeful. He keeps bringing people over and introducing them to Holmes, whose smile stretches tighter and tighter. If he had cat-ears, they would be pinned flat in annoyance, and there would be a constant low growl.

I lose track of my quarry for a while then, because the head server ties into me again for gawking, and I actually have to go hoist some trays around. When I have a chance to look for him again, he isn't by the column any longer, but I see a flash of light grey going up the outside steps into the still-empty Ballroom. What's he up to? The bathrooms are the other way. It would be too obvious for me to follow through the door, but the Ballroom has tall windows all along it's length. I can probably get a vantage point from the side garden to see inside without being too visible myself. My black clothes don't exactly blend in with green foliage in broad daylight, but the hedge is pretty thick there. 

I hope none of the staff spot me, because I don't have a good cover story in mind at all for why I am creeping around in the garden. At least I can't be seen from the Terrace. 

When I glimpse Holmes again, he is sitting in a straight chair in an alcove at the far side of the Ballroom, facing out the window, but his eyes are closed. He just sits there, motionless, with his hands pressed together palm-to-palm, long fingertips parked just under his nose. He looks like he's praying, but he hasn't struck me as the religious sort at all. Maybe he's meditating?

After a few minutes, he opens his eyes to gaze out over the gardens, his face expressionless. I don't dare move, because nothing draws the eye like sudden movement. I stay perfectly still, waiting for him to turn away from the window, or close his eyes again, so I can sneak away. It seems like forever, but he finally lowers his hands and turns away from the window, and I am off like a shot out of the hedges and back toward the Terrace. I almost get collared by the head server, but a story comes tumbling out of my mouth about a little dog lost on the grounds this morning, and how I thought I had seen it in the hedges. Incredibly, she buys it, and I trot back to "work."

The crowd on the Terrace is thinning out now, it's time for the receiving line in the Great Hall, and then people will be seated for the wedding breakfast in the Fountain Room. I feel like it's time for me to exit, stage right, because I don't think I can avoid Holmes spotting me serving during the meal. Besides, I'm really tired of that head server.

Back in the staff toilet, my bag is still secure up in the ceiling where I left it. It takes just a few moments to change, and to fluff my hair back into a mane of curls. A quick re-do on my makeup, and I'm away through the Oval Room and though the lobby and headed toward the front door. As I pass the reception desk, though, I nearly run bang into a pretty brunette going the other way--we do the Pardon Me dance and walk on, but as I'm going down the marble steps of the main entrance, it dawns on me that I've seen that woman before. It was Ms. Black Dress, the woman who questioned me when I was trying to cruise by Holmes's office.

I want to be paranoid, but I'm not going to indulge myself. She probably knows Mustache-Man, they obviously work in the same building, so that's why she's here. Of course.

It takes a while to get home to my flat, with several bus and train changes along the way, and I have plenty of time to think about my little excursion. I'm totally convinced now that Holmes isn't a multiple at all, any more than I am. He looked to me like a very introverted person trying to cope with an extrovert world. The way he needed to withdraw to center himself is a classic introvert thing. His reaction to the other people was interesting, though; could he be clinically misanthropic, too? That's interesting, I should look up more on narcissistic personality disorders, because I think misanthropy is related. 

It's well past six o'clock when I finally get home, and since I refuse to eat the nastiness that they serve at the stations, I'm starving. I rummage around the kitchen to see what I can find for tea. Sara is obviously out with her boyfriend, because she didn't cook anything tonight and leave me a plate.

Eventually I realize that unless I want to open a tin of Pablo's horrid fish bits, I am going to have to make a trip to the shop, or order take-away, or something. I hate having to make decisions when I'm over-hungry, my brain just doesn't work without fuel. 

I want a salad, a nice, big Salade Nicoise, the way I make it. Definitely means a run to the shop, but I don't mind waiting to eat now that I know exactly what I want. My clothes are wrinkled and smell like a bus, so I change into a snug, short leather skirt and a plain white t-shirt, and some comfortable shoes. I don't even take a bag, since my keys, wallet, and phone fit in the skirt pockets, and the nearest grocery is only a few blocks away. 

It's a Saturday night, and there are quite a few people out and about, enjoying the rare summer evening. I'm striding along quickly, letting my long legs do their thing, when I notice a group of people standing in front of an electronic marquee sign at a bank. They are making what-is-it noises, and as I draw near, I can see why. 

Instead of the time and temperature and messages about the bank services, the red dots are spelling out, **Good evening, Angelica Talbot.** The letters flash, and then crawl across the screen, then flash again, over and over.

My first thought is, who on earth would play a prank like this? Sara is my best friend, but I have a lot of other people that I hang out with when the mood strikes me--and none of them could do this. I don't know anybody who could do this. The bank's not even open right now. My phone rings, and I pull it out and see that it's an unidentified caller. I don't answer those, so I flip the "ignore" button and pocket it again.

I walk quickly on, very unsettled. This has got to be a prank, but I can't fathom who could pull it off, or would want to bother. I round the corner into the next block, and there is another electronic marquee, on another bank building. This one flashes orange, and the crawling letters spell out, **You ought to answer your phone, Miss Talbot.**

My phone starts ringing again, and my gut goes liquid with pure fear. This is--too much. Who the hell is playing games with me? Is it the killer? Did he do this to Calypso and the other girls before he stalked them down and shot them? I shut off the ringer on my phone, and start looking for possible escapes, my mind racing as my legs continue striding mechanically down the sidewalk. The orange dots on the marquee above me go black for a moment, then light up with, **Get in the car, Angelica.** A sleek black saloon glides up beside and just ahead of me, and a rear door opens out.


	5. "The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." ~ C.G. Jung

Get into the car? Like hell I will. I will not go gentle into that good night! The liquid fear in my stomach contracts into hard anger, and I ignore the car, swerving to the left and away from it, and keep on striding. The crazy bastard will have to get out and drag me if he wants me in that car, and there are too many other people about on the street to make that a good option. I methodically scan the buildings, the street, other pedestrians, looking for a likely escape. There's always a way out, Daddy used to say, you just have to have the brains to see it, and the guts to try.

Luck is with me, because there is a small herd of rough but fit young men coming down the sidewalk right towards me. They look like they might be builders or a road crew or something; they are all eying me as we draw near each other, and smiling appreciatively. I slow down and smile back even more appreciatively, picking out the tallest and broadest, most alpha-looking of them to zero in on.

_"Johnny!"_ I exclaim in my best happy-sex-kitten voice. _"Is that you? It's been ages! God, you look great, honey!"_ I grab his arm and spin him toward me, pressing my leather-clad thigh against his in a _very_ friendly way. He smiles, pleased but confused, and tells me I must be mistaken, his name is Matt.

_"Oh, how could I forget something like that! Wow, that's embarrassing...but you know, I could never forget your face--or other things."_ I give him a teasing smile, and, linking arms with him and one of his mates, ask, _"Are you boys headed to the pub? Can I come along, please? I'm absolutely desperate for some fun tonight!"_

They are indeed headed for the pub, and they seem all too pleased to have me come along. Like I've said before, people very rarely object to a beautiful, friendly young woman joining the party. 

Arm-in-arm with two brawny males, and surrounded by two more in close attendance, I feel protected, although I know it's just an illusion of safety. Once we get to the pub, I'll have to figure out my next move, but I feel certain that the maniac who is after me isn't going to try anything at the moment.

There are no more mysterious messages spelled out in glowing dots as we head for the pub. Matt has slipped his arm smoothly around my waist, taking possession. I chat him up in vague circles as he tries to figure out where he knows me from, how deep our acquaintance goes, and if he is likely to get the chance to renew it tonight. I'm careful to seem neither desperate nor disinterested.

The pub is the usual kind for our neighborhood--pleasant enough, clean enough, nothing special. It's busy, and there aren't any tables left with a good view of the soccer game on the television, so my boys take control of one end of the bar. One of them finds me a padded stool to park myself on, and Matt takes the only other vacant one, his arm still around me. I'm not fond of beer, so I ask for a cider, and sip it sparingly. I can't afford to dull my wits one bit, and on an empty stomach to boot. The boys are quickly and loudly immersed in the soccer game, and Matt wastes no time sliding his hand down from my waist to cup my hip in his beefy hand. I nestle into him just a little, pretending to watch the game, and try to figure out what to do.

I can't go home. I can't stay here more than a few hours. I could, obviously, go home with Matt, but whoever was messing with the marquees and my phone might be waiting outside to follow me wherever I might try to go. And there's the big question--who was doing that? They obviously wanted to scare me, and succeeded pretty damn well at it. Why would the killer go to those lengths to terrorize me?

What if he was trying to intimidate me into silence about something? Could I have some link with Calypso and the others? We might have had a client in common somewhere along the line, learned something that we shouldn't have.... I need help figuring this out...

I glance down from the game to see two very broad men in dark suits bearing down on our little party. They look grim, and I have no doubt that they are here for me. Ignoring all objections, the men push their way through the crowd, and one grabs hold of me. _"Miss Talbot, you need to come with us."_ His voice is flat and official, and I absolutely panic when I feel his hand close on my arm. Shrinking back against Matt, I emit the most girly-girl scream you can imagine.

Matt lunges to his feet, shouting, _"Get off her!"_ and sucker-punches the suit-man in the face. The suit staggers back against his partner, falls, and all hell breaks lose as Matt's mates dive in to help him. I duck out of the way, and, like my friends and I always did when there was a pub fight, run into the ladies' room to hide. 

Well, not exactly hide. I need to get out of here, and fast, because the outcome of the brawl is far from certain--those suits didn't look like pushovers. 

There is a little window up high on one wall, propped open with a brick to provide some ventilation. I drag the wastebasket over so I can tip it upside-down and use it as a stool, and I'm able to force the window open far enough so I can squeeze out of it, and drop to the ground outside. 

Now what? I'm standing in a darkening alley filled with trash and weeds, and not completely sure where I am--I don't have a terribly good sense of direction--nor where I should go. 

I can't just stand here. I spot a rusty fire escape a few feet away, and a quick glance up tells me that it's intact, and goes all the way to the roof. I don't think they will expect me to go up, so I go up. The building is only four stories high, and it doesn't take me long to get to the roof and climb up over the ledge, looking down and behind me as I go. No sign of the suits, or anybody else. 

I lie panting on the sharp gravel covering the rooftop and work to get control of myself again. Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic. Panic makes you stupid. 

Right. People are after me, and they may be dangerous. It might be somebody who has already murdered three other women. I could be his next target. I need help.

I sit up, making sure that this doesn't make me visible from the ground, and pull out my phone. I don't know what people did before there were satellite navigation apps, but they are a godsend for people like me. The little pulsing blue arrow shows me where I am, and a pin shows me where I want to be going, and a blue line plots out the best route for me to take to get there. What a wonderful thing. I silently bless the nerds who have made this possible, and start moving in the direction it points me.

I follow from roof to roof until I run out of them, and then go down another fire escape to the street level to keep on following the blue line on my phone's map. I run into a huge snag, however, and that is the black saloon--it keeps circling around me, ahead on every corner. I have to keep dodging down alleys and one-ways to avoid it, but then it pops up again like a bad penny. 

How the hell are they able to follow me? My path through the streets is like a drunk's wanderings, but the black car is pacing me, waiting at every turn. It's like they know exactly where I am, all the time. 

I look at the wonderful phone in my hand, and the little pulsing blue arrow. Damn. If emergency services can lock onto a phone's signal, it means others could do it, too, I bet. It's got to be my phone, nothing else makes sense. I should chuck it into a bin, but I don't want to--it's too expensive to replace! Besides, I love my phone....

Right, plan B: My traitorous navigation app shows me where the nearest Underground station is, just a few blocks away. I take back alleys and cross-cuts at a flat run, to get there before they can guess where I'm headed, and I bolt down the steps like a rabbit down a hole. Ha! Follow me here, black car, I dare you. And, I've never had my phone get signal underground, so I don't think they'll be able to track me.

Riding the tube will actually take longer than getting there on foot, but it will get me almost to the doorstep of my destination, and it's nice to sit down for a while. A nervous wreck, I huddle on the seat and watch the lights flash by outside the window, and examine each new arrival on the brightly-lit train, poised to run like hell if they look at all menacing to me. It's the Underground on a Saturday night, so there are plenty of people who look menacing in general, but none take much notice of me.

There's no sign of the black car as I exit the station at St. James Park, and I glance at the clock as I go up the steps. It's been nearly three hours since I left the flat to run down to the shop! Feels like a lifetime ago.

In a few minutes I am walking into the reception lobby of the Metropolitan Police, and I finally feel almost safe. 

# # #

Half an hour later, my hands are wrapped around a cup of weak tea in a styrofoam cup, and I am sprawled back in a faintly-sticky vinyl chair in a small, empty waiting room, waiting for a D.I. to come take a statement from me. I don't know who is going to be on duty at ten o'clock on a Saturday night, probably somebody with no family life; Daddy never worked weekends if he could help it, even before Mum passed away. Thinking about him makes my eyes prick with tears--I still miss him horribly at times, like right now. Especially, right now. I drain the rest of my tea, and lean my head back with a sigh. I wish I could bum a cigarette, but I couldn't smoke it in here anyway.

_"Miss Talbot?"_ I look up to see a female constable in uniform, and a plainclothes male come in. They are both middle-aged, with greying hair; the man is probably the D.I. His looks and mannerisms remind me powerfully of my father, and I straighten up in my chair and give them a relieved smile. _"That's me,"_ I say. 

The constable takes a seat beside me, resting a clipboard on her knee, and the plainclothes drags a straight-backed chair over and turns it around, straddling it and leaning his arms on the back. I instantly like him even more for this, because that was one of Daddy's habits as well.

_"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade,"_ he says, _"and this is Constable Merrill. We'd like to hear what happened to you tonight, but first I need you to clarify something very important for me. Is it true that you knew all three women who were murdered this past weekend?"_

_"No,"_ I shake my head. _"I told them at the front desk, I knew only one personally, Calypso--I mean, Alice Potts. I didn't know the others, but we are all--I mean, um, I'm....we are all in the same business. Colleagues."_ I'm not usually so awkward about my job, but talking to D.I. Lestrade feels weirdly like talking to my father, and the words just will not come out smoothly.

The detective and the constable exchange glances. I fiddle with my foam cup and wait.

_"Okay, so you might have...professional connections with these ladies that you wouldn't necessarily be aware of? Is that it?"_

I nod, and take a deep breath. _"Yes. That's what I'm afraid of. That's what is so frightening about those men coming for me, and the car, and the messages on the bank marquees..."_

The D.I. frowns slightly, and I can tell he has doubts about my story. _"Yeah, I want to hear all that as well, but first--"_ He is interrupted by a young constable who hurries into the room, and tells him that here is an urgent phone call. Excusing himself, Lestrade leaves for a few moments, and comes back looking both puzzled and annoyed; exasperated, even. He stands in the doorway looking at me with his arms folded across his chest, then shakes his head and motions for the policewoman to come with him. _"I need you out here for a minute, Merrill. You,"_ he points at me with a commanding look, _"you, stay put."_

Alone once more, I lean my head back and close my eyes. I'm incredibly tired. This has been an exhausting day, and I just want to go home and take a hot bath, and maybe read some poetry to Pablo before I go to sleep. I haven't done that in ages, he probably thinks I don't love him anymore. What is taking these cops so long? 

When Lestrade and Merrill come back in, their movements are guarded, and I instantly know that something is seriously wrong. It is, because following close behind them are the two suits that tried to take me from the pub! One of them has a plaster on his cheek, and the other has a cut and swollen lip. Both look very, very cross.

I sit bolt upright, my stomach clenching in fear, and look helplessly at Lestrade as the angry suits each grab an arm and hoist me to my feet. As one of them expertly snaps handcuffs on my wrists, I shout out, _"Why are you letting them do this? I haven't done anything wrong, why are you letting them do this? You're supposed to help me!"_ I'm embarrassed to realize that I have tears running down my face, and I look helplessly into Lestrade's dark eyes as I am frog-marched out of the room. His lips tighten, and he turns his face away.

I'm offering up no resistance, but the suits are still rough as they haul me down to the parking garage where the black saloon is waiting. I'm unceremoniously shoved into the back, with a suit seated on either side, and the car takes off into the nighttime traffic. 

I can feel the tears drying on my cheeks, and I'm retardedly glad that I wore waterproof mascara and liner tonight. Isn't that ridiculous? But I hate having makeup streaks down my face, it looks awful.

I calm down enough to take in my surroundings, and I realize that the car is being driven by a woman. I can see the back of her dark hair, but not her face; she has the rear mirror tilted up. The other front seat is empty. We are on a motorway, headed away from the city. I doubt it would be useful to ask any of these people what is going on, so I don't bother.

The look on Lestrade's face as I was dragged off was telling; it wasn't his idea at all for the suits to take me away. And he seemed very annoyed when he came back from answering the phone call. So, the D.I. wanted to keep me at the station, but someone went over his head, someone with greater authority. Government?

I glance sideways at both of the large men sitting on either side of me. They certainly look government. And that could explain the bank signs. 

Okay, so why would MI5 or any of the other security services be interested in me? Have I had a meeting recently with someone who is on their bad side? A foreign operative, or a traitor? My mad Canadian! Those CCTV cameras following us, all night long....

But, really, flashing messages on bank marquees is so theatrical. What kind of secret service does that to get your attention? Why didn't they just come knocking at my door and take me away? 

It takes me a few minutes to reach the obvious: They, whoever "they" are, want to intimidate me. So, they want something from me, and they think the best way to get it is through fear. 

The problem is, it's working. Despite my higher brain now grasping that all this has just been the tactics of intimidation, my monkey-brain is still just about to soil herself in terror. I close my eyes, and concentrate on calming the monkey down.

# # #

The car finally pulls up inside a deserted factory or warehouse or something, just the sort of place where people in films get beaten and tortured by the baddies. Wonderful. I feel like I could throw up, except that I haven't eaten all day and there's nothing in there. One of the suits gets out of the car, then reaches in and hauls me out by an arm; the guy still inside is getting an eyeful, because my short leather skirt rides up almost to my waist as I scramble to get out without my arm getting dislocated. 

When I'm out, the suit has to stand me up by force, because my legs are so wobbly I can't find my feet. The place stinks of chemicals and wet concrete, and it's dim except for a small bank of floodlights about fifty feet away. The suit spins me in the direction of the lights, and shoves me forward. _"Walk."_

My legs get steadier as I go, and I stand up straighter. Whatever it is over there, I'm not going to face it crawling and crying. My hands are still cuffed in front of me, but I put my shoulders back, tug my skirt down, and try to conjure up at least a shadow of confidence and a shred of dignity.

The floodlights aren't really that bright, but my eyes are dark-adapted right now, and I'm squinting and blinking to make out what--or whom--I am walking toward. As I get closer, I can make out the figure of a man. He's just standing there, waiting. 

I stop five or six feet away, and study him quizzically. It's very odd, when you see a person out of context; you recognize them, yet you don't. I once saw the mum of a close friend of mine out on a bender at a nightclub, and it was the strangest feeling, quite a lot like how it feels right now to be running into Mycroft Holmes in a smelly, dark, deserted warehouse. I'm catapulted into an alternative universe, where dapper civil servants in immaculate pinstripe suits spring from nowhere.

He gives me a tight little smile, and hangs his umbrella on his arm to reach into an inner pocket of his suit jacket, and takes out a little notebook. 

He opens it and looks down at a page. _"Angelica Elizabeth Talbot, age twenty-four. Parents, Elizabeth and Ernest Talbot, both deceased. Sister--"_

I take another step forward and ask, _"Why are you pretending to read from that notebook?"_ I'm not usually that cheeky, but this all feels so unreal, it's hard to take any of it seriously.

His mouth snaps shut, the book snaps shut, and he pockets the latter inside his coat with an irritated look. 

_"You're eyes weren't moving,"_ I add defensively. 

He narrows those eyes, and plants the black umbrella on the floor in front of him, both hands resting on the smooth handle. I'm not at all surprised to see that he did, indeed, have a spare. 

_"You have been the cause of quite a lot of trouble tonight."_ He pauses expectantly, but I'll be damned if I am going to apologize for running for my life. I just shrug. _"It would have saved all of us considerable effort if you had simply gotten into the car willingly."_

_"Why in the world would I do that?"_ I ask incredulously, and Holmes frowns. 

_"You're a submissive. You are supposed to do as you are told."_

At that, I almost laugh out loud. _"Not when I'm off the clock!"_ Does he think that how I am at our meetings is who I really am? That's surprisingly naive.

He frowns more deeply, then his face smooths out. _"Quite. Well, here you are, in any case. You wanted to talk to me?"_ he says, with a deadly sort of pleasantry. 

I shake my head. _"Not that I'm aware of."_ What the hell is he getting at?

_"You do seem to have been trying to get my attention of late, albeit in terribly clumsy ways."_

I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. Clumsy? Well, I guess I'm not so sly after all. _"Youthful exuberance?"_ I offer with a cheeky grin.

_"Childish stupidity!"_ he barks back. I bite my lip and stay silent.

_"So,"_ he continues with that creepy smoothness, _"who is paying you for information about me? Who is giving you instructions?"_

_"What? Nobody!"_ I am genuinely confused. 

_"Then, why have you been trying to spy on me? Tell me!"_ He is looking at me so intently that I feel more naked now than when I when I stood before him in the hotel room.

I can't meet his eyes any longer, and so I focus on his hands holding the umbrella handle. I realize that he is gripping it so tightly that his knuckles are white. He must be really and truly angry. I feel a flutter of fear. I don't know what he is, but I am suddenly certain that Holmes is no minor civil servant. He really is a shark, and I am a terrified guppy.

_"Curiosity, I guess,"_ I say quietly to the umbrella.

_"Ah, the same which killed the cat?"_ he says nastily.

I shift my eyes back up again to his face, and he is sneering at me. Swim, guppy, swim. _"Well, they say that satisfaction brought her back."_

He makes a disgusted noise. _"Trite."_ Holmes tilts his head up, so he is looking down his nose at me through narrowed eyes. _"So, it is merely curiosity that drives you, then?"_ he says with heavy sarcasm.

I bite my lip and shake my head. Talking to the umbrella again, I say, _"No, it's more like...sometimes I get kind of obsessed. Like, I have to know everything I can...the questions take hold of me, and it's hard to know when to stop. I go too far."_ I shift my gaze back up to his face again, and he is completely inscrutable, a perfect poker-face.

_"You really have no idea what you have put your foot into, do you?"_ he murmurs, almost without moving his mouth, and I feel the back of my eyes sting with sudden hot tears.

I burst out, _"No! No, I don't know what I put my foot into! I don't have a single bloody idea! All I know is that I've been running for my life for hours and I'm exhausted! I thought that the serial killer was after me--"_

Holmes looks puzzled. _"What serial killer?"_

_"The one that's picking off call-girls! The one that's killing my friends!"_

_"Those murders are not being committed by a serial killer,"_ he scoffs.

_"How do you know? Do you know who it is?"_

Holmes gives me a scornful look. _"Of course I don't know who it is. There aren't enough data in the police reports to deduce it yet, and the Met do not have...additional help at the moment. But it's very obviously not the work of a serial killer."_ He looks thoughtful. _"So, you believed your life to be in danger?"_

_"Yes!"_

_"And that's why you fled?"_

_"Yes."_

_"That was very stupid,"_ he says, matter-of-factly.

I shrug. _"We have a difference of opinion, then; I think it would've been stupid NOT to try and get away."_ I look at his hands on the umbrella handle, and the white-knuckling is gone. I relax a tiny bit. _"I won't be led around like a lamb to the slaughter, or jump into cars at the snap of a finger."_

His lips twist into a faint smile. _"You do realize that is a fairly incongruous stance, considering your occupation?"_ he observes aridly. 

_"It's not incongruous at all, it's a matter of sovereignty!"_ I answer hotly. _"If I decide to submit myself to an experience, then I've chosen it, and the experience and where it takes me are mine alone! I still own myself, you see? If I let someone else choose for me, it's not mine any longer, and I lose my...self..."_ I heave a sigh. _"I'm not being very coherent. Sorry. Never mind."_ I've had this conversation before, and nobody ever really gets it. 

Except that Holmes looks as if he might; he is gazing past my shoulder with a thoughtful expression for a long moment, and then turns his eyes back to me. _"Then, no doubt you need to believe that you fully understand the situation before making the choice? All the particulars..."_

I nod. _"Yes! And the subtexts, too. Everything, as best I can. Otherwise, it's just a random coin-flip, isn't it?"_ It dawns on me what he's hinting at. _"Right. That's what's been driving my...curiosity about you. There's one thing in particular--"_ I hesitate, and he gives me an unconcerned, go-ahead kind of look. 

I take a deep breath. _"I need to know, why me?"_ I look him directly in the eyes. _"To be blunt, you don't engage female escorts, and you don't engage the same escort twice in a row, ever. You've broken that pattern now, with me, but you're not a person who breaks pattern without a reason. You're running off your rails, and I need to know why, because it might affect me."_

He looks down and away, fidgeting with the umbrella, and I notice that he is poking his tongue into his cheek. I saw him do that a lifetime ago, earlier today at the wedding. I was too far away then, but I'm close enough now to see that he is actually biting his tongue. Holding back words? Or does the pain help him to stay focussed? I wonder if he has scars from biting too hard. He takes a long time to answer. 

Holmes finally sighs, and he looks a little haunted when he admits, still looking down, _"I don't know. I simply don't know. Running off my rails. Actually, that is not a bad metaphor. There have been...events in the past month or so. A family member in hospital, critically wounded. Incredibly stressful. I suffer from insomnia, and I've been nearly unable to sleep at all lately--except, after I have been to see you, I sleep very well indeed."_ He glances up at me, sideways, and I realize that that is all I'm going to get out of him on the matter. It's going to have to be enough. 

I nod. _"Stress relief. Okay, I get it."_ I draw a deep breath, let it out slow. _"So, all this,"_ I hold up my handcuffed hands and jangle the metal chain dangling between them, _"all this is because I was...well, stalking you? Nothing to do with that crazy Canadian, and the security cameras following us everywhere?"_

_"That? No. Nothing to do with it at all."_ He gives me a disgusted look. _"Why on earth did you agree to that? You didn't even appear to be enjoying yourself most of the time."_

_"Try none of the time, but it paid w-- Hey! Were you running those CCTV cameras?"_ You kinky bastard, I think. You were watching it all. 

Holmes just raises his eyebrows and gives me a supercilious look, not deigning to comment. Stalker. Takes one to know one. 

I jangle the cuffs again. _"Can you do something about these? You know I'm not fond of metal..."_

Blandly, he shakes his head. _"I don't carry keys about with me. Davis or Brown will take care of it."_ Holmes nods toward the black car, silently waiting in the shadows. _"By the way, I want my umbrella back."_

_"You might not want it..."_

He gives me a sharp look and frowns. _"Why? Did you damage it?"_

_"No...it's not broken..."_

_"Then I want it BACK."_ He almost sounds petulant. 

_"O-KAY!"_ I volley the petulance right back. _"I'll bring it next time."_ Assuming there is a next time; it seems like there might be. 

Holmes examines the smooth wooden handle of his umbrella closely, and nonchalantly asks it, _"What do you think of Knightsbridge?"_

Huh? _"Um, it has trees. Trees are good."_

He nods as if an agreement has been reached. _"Very well, then,"_ and he turns and walks away a few feet, then stops and says, over his shoulder, _"I'll have the contract and the keys to the flat delivered to you Monday."_

_"What? What are you talking about?"_

He swings around to face me again. _"I believe three months should be enough time for an off-rail excursion, don't you?"_

_"Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself? I haven't agreed to anything yet!"_

He just smirks, puts his umbrella on his shoulder, and walks away, calling out as he goes, _"The grey tabby will have to remain with your sister; I have allergies."_

Arrogant git. 


	6. "Alice: How long is forever?  White Rabbit: Sometimes, just one second." ~ Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland

I stand there for a moment, watching Holmes saunter away from me and leave through a door marked EMERGENCY EXITS ONLY. I don't know what to think, but I certainly feel annoyed. Just like that, I'm going to sign up to be his exclusive...sleeping tablet for three months? And move into some manky flat, sight unseen, without Pablo? Well, okay, Knightsbridge is unlikely to be manky, but still...

Back at the black car once more, the suits are no friendlier to me; if anything, they seem more hostile. One of them has gotten out and is holding the door for me; silently, I hold up my manacled wrists and jangle the chain at him. His lip curls slightly, but he reaches into a pocket to pull out a little key, and ungraciously removes the cuffs.

I get back into the car, then, and rub my sore wrists as we ride back into the City. It's a surprisingly short trip, it seemed much longer on the way out. Fear has a way of distorting time, I guess. 

I don't have to tell them where to take me; the car pulls up at our kerb, and the suit on that side pulls the door open, waving me out of the car. As soon as my foot hits the pavement, the door is slammed behind me, and the car peels away with a squeal of tyres. I guess they were as fed up with me as I was with them!

Pablo is the only sign of life in the flat; he is waiting by the door to wind around my ankles and say, Hullo, where were you, please feed me? I scoop the big cat up and snuggle into his warm fur, feeling the deep, comforting rumble of his purring against my chest. I let out a shaky breath that I didn't know I had been holding all night.

I loose Pablo to jump down from my arms before he starts to wriggle, and wander into the kitchen with him at my heel. Checking the shelves, I am astonished to see how much food there was in there all along; a mere six hours before, the cupboard had seemed entirely bare. Look, a tin of beans! Suddenly, that sounds like a feast.

I can't decide if I want a hot bath first, or food, so I compromise by doing both at the same time. By the time I've fed Pablo, opened my own tin, hunted down a clean spoon, and stripped off my astonishingly dirty clothes, the tiny tub is full enough for me to fold myself into the steaming water with a sigh. The beans taste...like cold beans straight from the tin, but I'm so hungry that it doesn't really matter.

I stretch out, putting my feet up on the taps so I can sink my shoulders under the soothing water. I feel numb. Just, numb. So much in one day. The wedding. Running miles through the city, dodging that black car--how could it have taken me so long to realize they were tracing my phone? And Holmes materializing in that rank warehouse...I can't believe how cheeky I was to him! I don't usually talk back like that to people...except with friends like Steen. I'm like that with him. I feel a pang of guilt. I should call Steen this week, but I don't want to deal with his envy, especially now that I really am going to be on long-term for a while--no, damn it, _might_ be on a long-term contract. I haven't decided yet. 

I put the empty bean tin on the floor and grab the soap to start washing up. Who am I kidding? Holmes was absolutely right, I have already decided to take the contract. There is no way that I won't. I'm hooked. 

Fed, washed and dried, I flick on the telly for a minute, then flick it off again. Boring. I'm exhausted, but still too keyed up to sleep. I fix another snack, some marmite on stale crackers with a cup of milky tea, and retreat to my bed. Propped up with pillows, I grab my ereader tablet and flip through my collection for something soothing, an old friend. Pablo Neruda, yes; some of the best love poetry on the planet.

Pablo jumps on my bed and curls up in the valley between my knees, purring loudly as if he approves my choice. I read the poems of his namesake aloud to us both, in Spanish, until my voice turns to mumbling and the reader falls from my hand.

# # #

By the time Sara comes home from her habitual Sunday boyfriend-brunch, I am up and sorting through my clothes, packing some into suitcases. I've already talked to my manager this morning, who called with the glad tidings that Holmes had emailed her a contract offer for my hire, and she bubbled with joy when I told her I had decided to accept. She will send a copy of the contract to me for an e-signature later today, and recommended that I print up a hard copy for reference, _"Because even the most intelligent people sometimes get confused, dear!"_ Is she talking about me, or Holmes, I wonder?

When she comes in to see me, Sara immediately wants to know why I'm packing, and I give her the abridged version of my day yesterday. She sits on my bed, and alternates between amusement and horror. Shaking her head at the final encounter in the warehouse with Holmes, she asks, _"Is this guy for real, Angelica? Are you sure that he isn't having you on? I mean, the amount of power he would need, to have you traced like that, to watch you...it's a little unreal, isn't it?"_

I shrug, folding up a shirt. _"You'd understand if you met him. I don't think for a minute that he's having me on. In fact, I think there's a lot more he's not saying, and never will. The blue one, or the green?"_ I hold up two sun-dresses.

_"The blue. The green one makes you look a piece of chalk, I told you that when you bought it. So, you are going to go live with a top-secret-super-spy government man that you know nothing about, in a hidden flat somewhere in Knightsbridge for three months, so he can get some sleep? Am I understanding you correctly? Do you realize that you sound completely mental?"_

I pull open my lingerie drawer, knowing I face some tough decisions. Lingerie is one thing that escorts take extremely seriously, it forming a large part of our working uniform, and even after only one year I have a considerable amount of it. What to pack?

_"Well, you've got a few things wrong. I won't be living with him; he's letting a pied-a-terre for the three months, as I understand it, and will visit me there. The flat isn't hidden, I just don't know where it is yet. I think you're right about the sleep part, though."_ I hold up two negligees. _"Which one, do you think?"_

_"Oh, dear, the purple slutty-strappy-thing, or the red slutty-strappy-thing? However is one to choose?"_ she mimes a woeful hand on her forehead, and I start throwing fistfuls of slutty underthings at her until we both are giggling.

I decide to pack all of it, since slutty-strappy-things really don't take up much room. _"You should be relieved that I'm taking this, Sara. It means that I will be only seeing one client for the next three months, and I won't be having to travel to appointments. Safer that way."_ We exchange a look.

_"I'm all for the safer part,"_ she says, and helps me pack the lingerie in the suitcase. _"So, what's he like? Old or young?"_

_"Well, neither, really."_

_"Handsome or homely?"_

_"Somewhere in the middle."_

_"Nice or nasty?"_

_"Um, both, by turns."_

Sara stops and gives me one of her looks. _"Are there any absolutes about the man? Or is he perfectly amorphous?"_

I laugh at that. _"Anything but! Tall, dark, and sarcastic sums it up, I think."_

_"Just your type, then!"_ I give her a scowl at that. _"Truth, Angelica, and you know it. Erik was like that, Sam was, so was Derrick..." _How on earth she remembers the names of all my ex-boyfriends, I don't know, because I can't even remember._ "Dad was too, you know, and we all know what Freud said...."_

_"Yeah, Sairs, he said that everything was a penis! And speaking of which..."_ I take the black umbrella down from the hook in my closet, and stow it in my large suitcase. Can't forget that, Holmes specifically asked for it. I've decided not to tell him where it's been, what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

Sara and I cover the business end of things over tea, since I will need a place to store the stuff I'm not taking with me, and she will continue to need me to share expenses. And she agrees to look after Pablo, although it's hard for me to ask. She was much against my adopting him on the first place, citing my lack of responsibility in the past, and warning that she wasn't going to end up stuck with a cat when I got tired of him. I make it clear that this is only for three months, and that I'll be visiting back here regularly.

_"You better visit!"_ Sara tells me. _"And keep in touch between visits. You are awful about calling me..."_

_"Then you should learn to text. I don't call, I text. Only oldies make phone calls anymore."_ She blows a very mature raspberry at me.

# # #

Time crawls by so slowly when I'm waiting on something; by Monday morning, I'm getting a little stir-crazy. I just want to get this move-in over with. It's almost noon before there's a knock at the door, and I answer it to find Ms. Black Dress, the pretty brunette, on my doorstep with a large envelope. We give each other fake-friendly smiles, she hands me the envelope without a word, and drives off. Okay. That felt like kind of bitchy, but maybe she's just being efficient; it can be hard to tell sometimes.

The envelope contains a hard copy of the signed contract, a key, and a note informing me that the flat, located at 1113 Ennismore Mews, is serviced twice a week, at ten o'clock a.m. on Mondays and Thursdays, and, as my contract is effective immediately, I am to relocate to that premises and expect a visit at 8 pm this evening, signed M.H. 

Well, that's all warm and friendly, too, isn't it. I wonder for a minute what I've gotten myself into, but I know that since I've chosen this, I've chosen where it takes me. I go call a minicab, asking for one with a large boot.

Ennismore Mews turns out to be a narrow, secluded cobblestone lane that meanders through a very quiet area near the Park. The high, pale plaster walls on either side are punctuated by occasional doors and windows, and every one graced with a blooming urn or flower-box. Number 1113 is a bright blue door, freshly painted, with a little gabled overhang trimmed in the same blue above it. 

The driver unloads my suitcases by the doorstep, I tip him for the trouble, and off he goes, the tyres making a odd rumble on the cobbles. I unlock the door, and step inside to one of the most adorable flats I've ever seen. The place is furnished with nineteenth-century antiques, or good reproductions of them. It feels like a boutique hotel room, but larger and not so cutesy-overdone as most of them. Whoever did the decorating had some restraint. The downstairs has a sitting room and modern kitchen, the upstairs a single bedroom and a period-style bath. That's it, and it's tiny, but what more do I need?

And when I enter the bedroom, I have to burst out laughing--the space is dominated by an _enormous_ mahogany four-poster bed. To my mind, it fairly screams "Adult Playground!" but then, I've got that sort of mind. Opposite the bed, I can see sunlight and green through the tall windows; they must overlook the Park. Nice touch, that, since I specifically mentioned trees. A burnished mahogany clothes valet is positioned in a corner under the windows, and the other corner bears a comfortable-looking padded armchair, with a little round side-table for company.

No closets in an old place like this, but there is a good-sized wardrobe, and I have it all to myself. I set to putting my things away. As I'm setting my toiletries up in the bathroom, though, I discover that Holmes has put some personal effects in the flat after all; a gentleman's shaving kit is laid out on a tray in the bathroom cabinet. There's a mug, a cake of nice-smelling shaving soap, a badger brush, and, most curiously, a straight-edge razor. I've never seen one before, and I take it out to have a look. The handle is brushed stainless steel, the blade all business. Very elegant. Figures that he wouldn't just use a disposable plastic twin-blade or something ordinary like that. I appreciate that he has it here, because I really hate stubble on a man's face. Beard-burn is a serious occupational hazard.

When I've emptied my suitcases, I stow them under the bed and take the whanghee-handled umbrella downstairs to tuck it into the brass umbrella stand by the front door, and bid it a fond farewell. It's been fun, little friend! I'll have to get one for myself one of these days. 

Using my trusty satellite navigation app, I venture out into the neighborhood on foot and locate the nearest eatery, a Chinese take-away, and it's not too awful. I also find a place to pick up a jug of milk, some tea, and a loaf of bread, so I'm set until I can figure out the bus lines and do a proper shopping trip tomorrow.

On my way back, I stop at the park for a smoke. I don't know if I should light up inside the flat or not; I'll have to ask Holmes about it, since he's paying for the place. I don't want a cigarette often, but it's a nice thing once in a while. I just don't have a very addictive personality--when it comes to substances, anyway. 

I'm still dying to find out more about Holmes, for example, although I now know that he would probably find out if I stalked him, and most likely be displeased. Very displeased, if I read his reactions right. But I still want to! It's a hard habit to break, and I still have a lot of questions. Like, is that Sherlock that was on the phone the other night his boyfriend, or what? Do they live together? Where _does_ the man get his money from? This cute little flat--in this neighborhood--isn't over-the-top posh, but it isn't cheap either. Comfortably upper-class, I'd say. And there's my retainer for the three months--although if you count up how much he'd be spending in nice hotel rooms plus my hourly, I think he's getting a reasonable discount by going for the long-term. Very practical, actually...

I stub out my cigarette and toss it into a bin, and head back to my new abode. It's time to start getting ready.

I go to put the jug of milk in the fridge, and get a huge surprise, because there's already one in there! Along with some other things, food that I use often, like lettuces, tomatoes and Swiss cheese. How did he know I only like Swiss? I check the freezer and cupboards, and there are more provisions. My favorite ice-cream. Eggs. Bread, and bagels. The biscuits we buy that Sara likes; the London shops never have the ones I like. There's even two packets of tea; my regular one, and a flavored one that I buy for Sara.

It's quite thoughtful, and sort of intrusive, all at the same time. Has he had people going through our garbage or something? Watching me at the shops? Weird, weird, weird. I shrug it off and go upstairs to bathe and dress. 

Sliding into the tub, I realize how big it is; I can almost stretch out fully in it! Now, that is something I could get used to. Once I've tended to my grooming and dried my hair, I have the delightful chore of deciding which bit of lace to decorate myself with. There is a full-length mirror thoughtfully set into the outside of one door of the wardrobe, and I spend quite a few happy minutes trying on this and that and admiring myself. I settle on some classic black satin for the bra and knickers, and a stretchy, tight black dress with a micro-skirt. Just a little makeup, no need for product or doing anything too fancy with my hair. I throw in some hot rollers to give just a little curl and bounce, even though my stylist claims that those things are ruining my hair.

I've brought along what I like to call my "toy-box," a small locking trunk that holds my personal and professional sex toys, and the black gym bag is in there with the accouterments that Holmes provided for me. I take it out and set it on the floor beside the bed, since I'm not sure what the new ritual is going to be. I get distracted, poking through my toy-box, when I hear the front door being unlocked downstairs. Oh, hell, it's eight already! I start ripping curlers out of my hair, tossing them into a bathroom drawer.

Finger-combing my hair, I slide on some flats and head downstairs. Holmes has just put his other umbrella into the stand, beside its mate, and looks up at me as I come down off the last step. 

_"I trust you have found everything to your satisfaction?"_ he asks politely.

_"Yes,"_ I nod. _"Very."_

_"Good, that's good."_ He puts his hands in his pockets, rocks on his feet a bit, and gives me a calculating, thoughtful look. He is a man with a speech to deliver. I loosely cross my arms, and lean against the carved bottom stair-post, expectant.

_"Before we go into the specifics of our little arrangement, Angel, there are some things that I must be sure you understand. Are you listening?"_ Mutely, I nod my head, and think, God, what a patronizing, arrogant git you are!

He continues, looking past me now toward the sitting room. _"I will keep this simple. Most important is the need for utter discretion on your part. Whatever you think you know about me now, whatever you find out later, is not to be shared, ever. With anyone, for any reason. Corollary to this, is loyalty. You will not act in any way, at any time, against my interests."_

He turns his eyes toward me, then, and they are like glittering ice-chips. I involuntarily shiver. _"If you betray me, ever, Miss Talbot, in any way, I assure you that I can, and will, arrange matters in such a way that the rest of your life will be spent incarcerated, with no hope of release, ever. Do you understand?"_ His face is like stone. I have no doubt whatsoever that he means every word of this. 

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, and nod again. My brain has gone a little numb. It's just too much, I want to get away. My eyes slide down from his face, to focus on his tie. It's blue, and covered with unexpectedly silly, tiny umbrellas, and I find my voice saying, _"Why--why not just have me killed if it's necessary, and be done with it? Seems simpler..."_ Where is this sass of mine coming from?

He looks genuinely thoughtful, and sticks his tongue in his cheek for a second. _"It's surprisingly complicated to eliminate someone that way. I don't resort to it unless absolutely necessary."_ Oh, my god, he's serious. I don't know if the shock registers on my face or not, but Holmes gives me an oddly cheerful smile, goes over to the sideboard in the sitting room, and pours himself a tumbler from one of the decanters there. 

He holds the glass up to the light, admiring the color. _"Well, that's that, and now we understand one another. Now for the particulars."_ He seats himself on the sofa, and waves me toward one of the armchairs like a gracious host. I sit, legs crossed, and my hands folded on my knee with a perky look, like I'm a new hire getting instructions. I think he misses the nonverbal sarcasm, but it makes me feel better.

_"First, availability. Your contract stipulates that you have complete freedom to come and go as you please, which of course is completely acceptable, but you are to be available here within three hours of notice, correct?"_ He sips his drink, I nod my head. _"Is there any way to reduce that by mutual agreement to two hours, or even one? My schedule is at times far more erratic than I would like, and three hours advance notice will be inconvenient."_

I consider. _"Well, the main problem is transportation. I don't have much going on that I can't drop with short notice, but it's getting back here quickly enough that would be the difficulty..."_

_"What if I sent one of my aides to transport you?"_

Oh, lovely, I think. Ms. Bitchy Black Dress and the Suit-ettes, what fun. I shrug. _"If you're sure they don't mind, we could try for two hours as a maximum, and less if I can manage it."_

He pulls a scornful face. _"Of course they don't mind, they're my aides. It's their job not to mind."_ Holmes stands up and walks over to the entertainment system hidden inside an armoire at the far end of the sitting room. _"Very well, two hours, then, and we shall have to see how it goes."_

He begins rotating through the cd's in the carousel, looking for something in particular. _"In future, I would like you to await my arrival upstairs, in the bedroom, rather than coming down."_

_"Okay,"_ I say. _"Any preference for me to be dressed, undressed, whatever?"_

He settles on a Baroque piece with lots of violin, and glances at my outfit. _"Dressed. That one is acceptable, but I would prefer more like the blue one with the ties,"_ He flutters his long fingers in an imitation of pulling strings. He turns fully toward me again then, with a more calculating regard. _"Two more things. First is your hair. Stand up, please."_

_"My hair?"_ I ask, standing. I've heard about this kind of thing with long-terms, they start to want to fiddle with your look. One escort on the forum said her long-term client even paid for her to have breast implants! I love my hair, and I'm not dyeing it or chopping it all off, no matter what. Well, maybe I would for a whole lot of money, but it would have to be a LOT. 

_"I'd like you to consider a slight change in style. It would please me quite a bit."_ He comes over and lightly touches my hair, pushing it back over my shoulders--then his face twitches, and he pulls out a hot-roller u-clip from the curls, holding it up in a bemused way. _"What in the world is this?"_

I snatch it out of his hand. _"Overlooked it. Sorry."_

_"Quite. Well, I would like to see your hair just a bit shorter, to above the shoulders, like so,"_ he flips the ends of my hair up so that it just grazes the top of my shoulders. _"And curled under smoothly, not all messy like this."_ He flops the ends about disdainfully. _"And, perhaps, a bit of fringe, just here,"_ he traces a finger across my right brow. _"What do you think?"_

Actually, it sounds pretty good. I've got such bad split ends that my stylist has been after me for months to take off a few inches, and a classic bob would look good with the 60's retro clothes I like right now....and I'm not going to let on to any of that, because I want full points for being agreeable. Might be useful. 

_"Well, I don't know...it's taken me years to get it this long..."_ I sigh reluctantly. _"I guess, if it really means a lot to you, okay. I have an appointment two weeks from now, I'll have my stylist do it up then?"_

He shakes his head, with a trace of a smile. _"I will make the arrangements for this week, at a good salon."_

I shrug. " _Okay. What else?"_

He knits his brows together and tilts his head for emphasis. _"Up until recently, you have been blissfully silent. I would appreciate a return to that, if you please."_

I smile, _"I didn't think you were here for conversation."_

He doesn't smile. _"Most certainly not,"_ he drawls out with an arch look, and gestures me up the stairs. I'm tempted to have the last word with, Well, neither am I! But I'm pretty sure that would be an error, so I bite my lip and head upstairs to await his lordship's pleasure. 

_# # #_

The baroque violins are sounding upstairs as well; there must be speakers installed in the bedroom. I go in and lie down on the big bed, with my head under a pillow. I can get along with nearly any sort of music most of the time, but there are times when classical is just plain annoying, especially the wailey violins. I roll over and stare up at the flounced canopy above me. I need to get over this attitude, and fast. I am full of resentment at Holmes, and that does not bode well for the rest of our business relationship. If I want this job to work out, I'm going to have to work at it. I close my eyes, and meditate on my breath, and calmness, and all those good things. I mentally recite some good poetry. I almost fall asleep. 

__I don't know how long he was there, but I open my eyes eventually and Holmes is standing in the doorway, not exactly looking at me sprawled on the bed, more like taking in the entire scene, with me embedded in it. The bed, the girl, the rich mahogany furniture, the green-gold sunset streaming through the tilted slats of the mini-blinds onto the pale ivory walls, he's taking in all of it, and he looks supremely pleased with himself. He has such a smug smile, that something rises in me that wants to wipe that gloating look off his face. I want to do something horrible, just to make him stop being so goddamn pleased with his wonderful self._ _

__Aren't we human beings a piece of work?_ _

__He hangs his coat on the clothes valet, and puts his drink on the little table, motioning for me to stand beside him. I comply, standing barefoot and ready. I'm still battling down the surge of hostility, trying to get back to feeling simply calm and attentive. It's a struggle._ _

__He doesn't want to do the long stare tonight; perhaps because he did already. He reaches down to the hem of my skin-tight dress, and begins to stretch and roll it upwards, over my hips, waist, bust. I raise my arms up over my head, and he pulls it up until my head pops out, but my arms are still wound up in the black fabric. He gathers the fabric tighter with one hand, pinning my elbows together over my head, and with the other hand very delicately strokes the satin cupped over my breasts, and the tiny triangle of it at my crotch. Note to self--Holmes really likes satin. Must get more._ _

__He shifts around to be able to fondle my backside then, and I realize that I can now see the reflection of his face quite well in the mirror on the wardrobe door. His eyes are closed, and I watch his expression curiously. His brow is knit, his face tense, lips parted; he might be a man in pain, but I know better. I've seen that look before--it feels so good that it hurts. He also looks pale and drawn to a thread; I can see marks of exhaustion under his eyes that I hadn't noticed before. Poor bastard really looks like he hasn't slept in days. Well, we'll take care of that._ _

__He releases my arms suddenly and motions for me to take everything off, as he reaches down beside the bed for the black bag. Out come the cuffs, but no harness this time. When I am naked, he buckles the ankle and wrist restraints on me, and I end up on my back, with wrists tethered to the head of the bed, then he guides my legs up, one at a time, to clip each ankle to a wrist. It's not as uncomfortable as you would think, especially after he tucks a pillow under my bum for support._ _

__The light has started to fade by then, so he turns on a small lamp on the bedside, a rather bright one. He then goes through his disrobing ritual, down to his undershirt and briefs as usual, then...he disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running, and the click of the cabinet. Bless his heart, he's shaving! I mentally take back at least a third of the uncharitable things I have thought about him._ _

I wait, feeling calm and centered, feeling the tingle of anticipation, feeling alive. Holmes comes back into the bedroom, carrying a tray, and has a towel over one arm. I look at him curiously, and he comments with a serene smile, _"You always miss a few spots. I like to make things tidy. Actually, I very much need them to be tidy."_

My eyes widen with a whimper as I realize that he has brought in the tray of shaving equipment, including the straight razor and a mug of steaming water. I shake my head vigorously and start to babble. _"No. No way. That's not necessary, I already took care of that. Put it away!"_ My voice starts to rise to a shriek, and he puts down the tray and shushes me with soft fingers laid on my lips. 

_"I am going to do this regardless,"_ he says steadily. _"If you carry on loudly, you'll disturb my concentration, and I might nick you. If you thrash around, I might nick you. Really, the only possible course of action is to relax and do your breathing. You might find that you actually enjoy it,"_ he finishes with a strangely genuine smile, and starts to expertly whip up a lather with the soap and brush.

I stare at the canopy above me, and say through gritted teeth, _"So help me, if you do me any damage, I swear I am going to saw off your bollocks with a dull knife!"_

All I get in response is a _"Shush!"_ and a chuckle. 

I can't believe this. This is why we are supposed to use safe words in bondage play, although I have the suspicion that he would be ignoring that, too, right now. He's applying the brush and lather to my tender bits, everywhere where hair usually grows down there, and a few places I thought it didn't. It tickles, and feels slippery at the same time, and smells very nice. It feels very, very erotic, but I am terrified at the thought of that razor... Actually, the terror of the thought of the razor is making the tickle of the brush even more erotic. He knew that, the bastard! It's so arousing, I have a hard time keeping still; I want to squirm.

Finally, I hear him put the brush back on the tray, and a soft _snick!_ as he unfolds the razor. I am tempted to raise my head and have a look down there, but I can't bring myself to do it. I brace myself for the touch of cold steel, but there is only a slight tugging at the skin, and bits being moved around to keep the skin stretched taut. His hands are sure and gentle, precise. I almost don't dare breathe. I'm so turned on, I feel like I'm vibrating without actually moving, and time is suspended.

After forever, there is the click of the razor being laid back on the tray, and a warm, moist towel is swabbed over me, removing the traces of soap and lather. I start breathing again. 

The bed shifts as he gets off it to take the tray back to the bathroom. He returns a moment later, and turns the light down to a soft glow. He lays his hands and face on me then, on the front of me: belly, breasts, thighs, throat, legs, everywhere. There isn't the same frantic intensity as before, though. He's more languid, calmer, more thorough.

I would have thought him more squeamish about the parts that are dripping wet right now, but he seems to relish that, too, feeling and tasting; then he becomes more and more focussed on my bum. Ah, so that's the way it's going tonight? No problem, that's fun, too, I think, and concentrate on relaxing. 

By the time he's applied the condom, I am so relaxed and slick with my own flowing juiciness that nothing extra is needed. He slides in, and we are, for the first time, coupled face-to-face. I wonder academically if he will be an eye-contact, or an eye-avoiding, or an eyes-closed kind of guy. My money is on eye-avoiding, but I am dead wrong. 

I am literally bent double under him, my tethered ankles resting on his shoulders, his arms planted on either side of my legs, his face closer than it's ever been, and those blue eyes are boring into mine. I myself am an eyes-closed person, but it's a disengagement signal to turn away from eye contact, so I endure the gaze, holding his eyes with mine as he moves in me, but it's almost more than I can handle. I don't want to be this close to him, to anyone. I'm laid bare, flayed, and his eyes are sharper and more terrifying than any razor.

He doesn't even close his eyes when he comes, instead curling in even closer to me, until we are nose-to-nose, and I can taste the brandy still on his breath. It's only when the spasms are over for him that he finally lets go of my eyes and collapses against me, his head cradled on the curve of my shoulder, gasping. I start to get a little concerned, but a few moments later he seems to rally, and slowly rolls away from me. 

He's not quite out of there like a shot, but he doesn't linger. As always, now I become invisible to him, no more consequential than the rest of the furnishings in the room. I hear the shower run briefly, then he comes out and quickly dresses, finally releasing one of my wrists without a word, or a glance. A moment later I hear his voice downstairs, probably calling his car, and then the front door opens and closes, and I'm alone with the damned baroque violins. I strip off my tethers and stalk downstairs in the buff to figure out how to shut the music off.


	7. "Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do..." ~ Shakespeare, As You Like It

Two hours later, I am still stalking around the flat, although now wrapped in my dressing gown, my hair in a towel. I've tidied up, showered, and given myself three orgasms, and I am still so restless I am ready to jump out of my skin. 

I go to the kitchen for some ice-cream, but after a few spoonfuls from the carton, I throw the spoon in the sink. That's not it. I wish Pablo was here, I could cuddle him. It's too late to phone Sara on a work night, and I don't feel like talking to anybody else. The soft jazz that I've put on the stereo sounds soothing, but I'm not soothed. 

I want a smoke. Damn it all to hell, I forgot to ask him if I could smoke in the flat! I stand with my cigarettes and lighter in hand, wondering what to do--this isn't the sort of neighborhood where you can stand in your dressing gown on the front steps for a smoke-o!

Fuck it. Fuck HIM. I throw myself down on the sofa, plant my feet on the coffee table, and light up. Ah, now we're getting somewhere! I pull the towel off, tossing it on the floor, and flip my damp hair over the back of the sofa so it won't get my shoulders wet. I lean my head back and blow smoke at the ceiling like a 40's film star. 

I know why I forgot to ask about smoking in the flat. Holmes got me so rattled with his little speech about betrayal...unbelievable, except that I believe it, every word. What he said, and how he looked when he said it, was scary--but I'm not scared of him. I probably should be; I mean, he threatened me! And I have no doubt that he would kill me if he thought it was necessary, complications be damned. 

So why the hell am I still here? Why am I not packed and running back to Sara's? I have the option of breaking my contract at any time, with no penalties. But I don't want to leave. I don't know what I want, but leaving isn't it. 

I take a deep drag on the cigarette, and realizing that I have no ashtray handy, cup my hand under the glowing lump of ash on the end of it as I run to the kitchen for a saucer. I don't quite make it, and yelp with pain as a big chunk of ashy grey with a gash of red in it falls into my palm. I hold my hand under the cold tap for a few minutes, until it stops hurting, flicking the ashes into the sink as I finish the cigarette. 

I remember my auntie holding my hand under the tap like this all the time; I used to burn myself a lot when we first went to live with her. City kids, Sara and I had never seen an open hearth in our lives until we were sent to Auntie's after Mum died, and I was completely fascinated by the coal fire that heated her cottage sitting-room. I was obsessed with playing with it, even though at seven years old I should have known better. Sara did her best to thwart me, but Auntie's theory of child-rearing was, "Experience is the best teacher," along with, "What doesn't kill you makes you wiser." It's probably for the best that she didn't have any children of her own.

I kept getting burned, and kept going back for more. I never told anyone, but sometimes I would let the coals burn me a little on purpose, probably a displacement activity. Fire-bug, Auntie called me, and threatened me with a hiding if I ever played with fire outside of the hearth. I never did. I was a good girl, back then. I did as I was told.

Turning the cold tap off, I take down a saucer and go back to the sofa to light up another cigarette. This one doesn't taste as good as the first, so I stub it out halfway, and lean back to listen to the mellow saxophone and piano bantering on the stereo. 

What’s going on with me? I poke around at my feelings, untangling them without judgment, as if they were just a mess of tangled wool I wanted to knit with…. 

I feel lonely. I feel sad. I feel...hurt. What hurts? 

A very young part of me answers, He doesn't care. He just makes things happen and then goes away. He doesn't offer any comfort, or even connection. He doesn't care. He's just like--

Ah. There it is. I won't make myself even think it, because it's too creepy, but there it is. Right. Well, Angelica, don't get Holmes confused with other people. He's an employer, it's not his job to care. That's why he pays money, so he doesn't have to care. It's a fair deal, and if I don't like it, I can leave.

I don't want to leave. 

So, I guess that puts me smack back where I was, craving comfort where there is none. I heave a sigh. Sometimes there is no solace, and that is the hard truth of it. Sometimes the only thing you can do is have a good cry. Afterwards, I put myself to bed.

# # #

I don't mean to have a long lie-in the next morning, but it happens anyway. There is no morning sun coming in the tall bedroom windows, no hungry tabby to pounce on my head. I stumble downstairs, checking my phone for messages, but there aren't any. I feel very insulated as I have my morning tea and toast, like the rest of the world is very far away. Most people are at their day-time jobs right now.

I text Sara, but figure she won't reply, so I phone her just to hear her voice mail message. It's reassuring. I catch up on my forums and social networking obligations as well, although I'm not feeling very social at the moment. 

The day looms ahead of me, and I'm feeling at odds in a way that feels frighteningly familiar. Ah, depression, my old friend... But I know what to do. I immediately sit down and make myself a schedule, my first line of defense. 

First, tidy the flat and get in a few hours of study; it doesn't matter which of my projects I work on, so long as I work on one--translating more Rumi might be a good choice. Rumi is good for the soul. Or, maybe that book about men in mid-life crisis that I started reading a while back...

Second, exercise; I have to make myself go to the gym for a few hours. My body is my major asset right now, and I can't neglect it--besides, working out lifts your mood, that's a fact.

Third, outside time; even if it's just strolling the pavements, I need to be outside doing something physical. Walking at least part of the way when I go to get groceries will do, and maybe a walk in the park as well.

# ##

I end up having a pretty good day. It doesn't hurt that it's warm and sunny for a change, a gorgeous July evening. By the time I am walking down Ennismore Mews with two carry-bags in each hand, bopping along to the tunes I have playing on my earbuds, I'm completely content. I'm looking forward to making myself a really nice mushroom-spinach-swiss cheese omelette for tea, and then exploring the lush public gardens across the way for afters.

I let myself into the flat, humming, and almost drop my groceries when I see a man lounging in my sitting room, reading a newspaper. It takes me a moment to realize that it's Holmes, looking up at me with sardonic amusement. I pull out my earbuds, and he gives me a polite nod, then goes back to his paper. _"There is a person at the Diogenes that I am avoiding this evening,"_ he offers indifferently.

 _"Oh, I see."_ He did make it known last night that he would like me to talk less, so I leave it at that.

Okay. He's paying for the place, of course he gets to come and go as he pleases, too. Still, it's very weird having him unexpectedly sitting there. He'd better not be thinking I'll drop everything to go upstairs for him right away. Two hours notice, that's what we agreed. I'm really hungry, and I want to at least eat a little bite first.

I park my handbag and other burdens on the dining counter, put the groceries away, and start getting the equipment out to make my tea. I wish there was a proper pan in this kitchen for omelettes, but it seems to only be furnished with the basics; I guess I should be grateful that I at least didn't have to bring my own cookware.

Holmes can see into the kitchen from his chair, and looks at me over the top of his paper. _"Angel, I have two items to inform you of. First, you have an appointment tomorrow at 2 o'clock at the salon in Harrod's to have your hair cut, as we agreed. They will phone you with a reminder. Getting there on foot from here should take you less than 9 minutes. I assume that you won't require a car for that?"_ I shake my head. Oooh, I get to go to Urban Retreat salon. Very swish. 

_"Secondly, in future I prefer that you not smoke in this flat. If you please,"_ his eyes narrow slightly, and his thin lips are pressed together disapprovingly. 

_"Okay,"_ I nod. That long nose of his must be as sensitive as a bloodhound's, because I aired the place out earlier. Oh, well, it's not really a big deal--and now I know a way to just slightly annoy him, if I want to.

He returns to his paper, and I to my cooking. I am washing my mushrooms before slicing them up to saute with the spinach, when Holmes peers over and looks horrified. _"You should never wash fresh mushrooms! You wipe them clean with a tea towel. Washing them spoils the flavor."_

I shake my colander full of clean mushrooms, draining them. _"They grow in compost. I don't like the flavor of compost, so I wash them."_

He shakes his head, returning to his paper. _"You obviously have no idea how to cook."_

Grrrr. _"Then I guess I shouldn't offer you anything, since you wouldn't care for it anyway."_

He doesn't look up. _"No, I wouldn't."_

I roll my eyes and get on with chopping the mushrooms.; a minute later he’s watching me again, and making that face. I’m obviously doing it all wrong. _“I believe they have cookery programmes on television,"_ he says, sounding as if he is genuinely trying to be helpful. _"Would you like to have a television here? I hadn’t considered that.”_

I put down the knife so I can glare at him directly. _“No, thank you. I don’t need to watch 'cookery programmes.' And I've got my own broadband connection; I can watch all the shows I care to on my laptop.”_

 _"What a relief. Here I was wondering what you were going to do with yourself all day long."_ Sarcasm doesn't usually bother me; I kind of got used to it growing up. You just can't take it personally. 

I start chopping again, extra-vigorously. _"Today I spent most of the day reading, actually."_

He makes a show of peering around the room, with a look of feigned confusion. _“Reading…? What, exactly? I seem to have brought with me the only printed matter to be found in this flat,”_ he folds his newspaper and flops it down on the coffee table. 

Oh, my god, that's it. I put down my knife, pull my e-reader in its padded case out of my handbag, and flip it at him like a Frisbee. Holmes catches it neatly, but frowns at me.

 _“That’s my library, about 900 books at the moment.”_ I toss the veggies into the hot olive oil in the pan, stirring them around. Holmes flips open the cover of my e-reader and toggles it to the index, rapidly paging through the titles. I was hoping he would do that; I want him to see that I’m no lightweight.

 _“I see that it’s not quite all popular novels. Quite a lot of psychology, not surprising, given the degree you were pursuing...."_ Right, I think, make sure that I know that you know everything about me, Mr. Holmes.

He keeps on paging. _"There are even a few volumes in foreign languages. Persian, Spanish, German, Russian…”_ He looks up at me, _“How many foreign languages do you speak?”_ he asks, looking mildly interested. 

_“Well, only German, really. But I can read quite well in four others and--”_ I’m quite proud of this, but he cuts me off dismissively.

 _“With a dictionary, no doubt,”_ and flops my reader on the coffee table alongside the newspaper. 

_“Yes.”_ Deflated, I whisk my eggs, but then that cheekiness bubbles up again. _“So, how many languages do you have? Without a dictionary, I mean.”_

He gives me a very deadpan look. _"Fluently? Fifteen, not taking into account dialects and regional—“_ his phone rings, and he immediately takes it out, checks the number with a frown and answers it. _“Yes, what is it?”_ He wanders toward the front entry for more privacy.

I keep the heat low so the eggs don’t make too much noise when they hit the pan; I want to hear what he’s saying. However, I needn’t have bothered, because I can hear him just fine when he starts to shout at whoever it is that called. 

_“What? Again? Oh, for god’s sake, can’t you people keep better track of him than that? It’s not as if he can move very quickly at the moment."_ Pause. _"That serious? What was the latest blood test?"_ Pause. _"I see. Yes, by all means keep him sedated, once you get him back. No, no need to involve the police yet. I’ll see what I can do._ ”

He hangs up and makes another call, sounding very put-upon. _“I need you to locate him again. Yes. High priority. No, just locate him and contact me for further instructions.”_

Holmes places his phone on the coffee table and heaves down on the sofa with a sigh, elbows on his knees and rubbing the sides of his head with his hands. _“Oh, Sherlock,”_ he groans. He looks at the decanter on the sideboard, his arms dangling down. He suddenly looks worn and weary.

And I’m a sucker for male angst, so I go and pour a small brandy for him, bringing the tumbler over and setting it down in front of him. I have an impulse to give him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, but I don't think he'd appreciate it.

Holmes looks at the drink, then at me, and reaches over to take it in hand. He takes a swallow, savoring, then a larger quick one. I finish getting my tea ready, and take a seat on a stool at the counter that divides the sitting room and the kitchen to eat it. 

I’m dying to know what's going on, so I toss out a conversational gambit around my eggs. _“I hope he’s worth all the trouble.”_

Holmes sighs, looking at the rapidly-emptying glass in his hand. _“I suppose, yes…mostly…oh, of course he is! I do my best to look after him. He doesn't make it easy. He never has."_ Another sip slides down. _"He relies on me, but resents it. And me."_

I smile at a thought. _"You sound like you're his keeper, then."_

 _"Yes, I suppose so,"_ he gives a mirthless little laugh. _"It fits, doesn't it? I don't think he realizes how much he needs keeping. He’s so careless, so haphazard. Impulsive.”_

 _“Maybe that’s what you love about him,”_ I hazard, sipping my tea.

 _“Love?!?”_ Holmes looks positively alarmed and horrified, and a little repulsed. 

I have to laugh at his reaction. _“It’s not a dirty word, you know. It’s terrifically over-used, of course, and a little imprecise, but it’s still acceptable for use in polite company.”_

He snorts derisively as he takes another sip of his brandy. _“It ought not to be. 'Love,' "_ he drawls the word out to nearly five syllables, _"--is nothing but self-indulgent sentiment, a ready excuse for the exercise of any and all stupidity and vice….a sugar-coating on the realities of human nature. “_ He knocks back the rest of his drink.

Wow, Holmes must be really fun to be in a relationship with. I start to feel a little sorry for his boyfriend--no wonder Sherlock has some resentments!

I finish my omelette, all the while trying to formulate another question that will tease out some more information without sounding too obvious; but then his phone rings again. This time he doesn't bother to withdraw when he answers it, and I see that after a quick glance at the number of the caller, his face registers relief. 

_"Yes. Where ARE you? And why...oh, never mind."_ There is a long pause, and he rolls his eyes, waiting for the other person--Sherlock?--to stop talking. _"Well, you're on the right track to taking care of your problem, aren't you? Yes, I think so. You're doing quite well."_ I can hear the sarcasm dripping as Holmes's voice turns silky. _"Quite well indeed. In fact, if you keep on like this, you'll never have to worry about being bored again, I should think."_ Pause. _"Oh, well, because you'll be dead! Of septic shock, Sherlock! Get back to the hospital and back on the intravenous antibiotics, you idiot!"_ There is another long pause, and Holmes sighs. _"Yes...later. In a few hours. Of course. Yes, of course. Just tell me one more thing, please. Is John with you?"_ The answer makes Holmes close his eyes with relief as he ends the call. 

Then he looks at his empty glass, and then at me. I go ahead and fetch him another one; it's a nurturing thing, I can't help it. He's still an arsehole, but he's an arsehole who's worried sick about a difficult loved one.

Whilst I'm pouring, he makes another call, saying simply, _"Stand down. He's been located,"_ then takes the proffered tumbler from my hand and settles himself back on the sofa with a sigh. I'm perched once more on the stool, finishing my mug of tea, and Holmes takes out his pocket watch with a flourish and checks the time, then raises an eyebrow at me, flicking his eyes upstairs. 

I respond with a smile, and say, _"Twenty minutes, I should think."_

He shakes his head. _"Fifteen, because you will let me take care of the intimate shaving."_ I make my eyes wide and give a little whimper; he actually gets something like a grin on his face, and lets out a quiet chuckle.

# # #

Holmes comes upstairs exactly fifteen minutes later, of course, to the strains of something tinkly on a piano--maybe Chopin?--and he has already shed his suit jacket. Well, so much for my OCD theory, if he can vary his disrobing ritual spontaneously, unless his focal point is another ritual I don't know about... It occurs to me that I am much less preoccupied these days with figuring out what's wrong with him; maybe I'm less uncomfortable with him now? Sort of....

I've put on the blue silk wrap dress, since the rain water didn't spot it after all, and Holmes's eyes crinkle up in a smile when he sees me wearing it, standing by the big bed. He doesn't sit down, but immediately walks slowly around me, trailing a hand on my hip and tum, taking in the feel of the silk and my skin beneath it. Then he pulls the strings, unwrapping me, and the dress flutters down into a puddle of blue. 

Locking his eyes with mine, he reaches around to unhook my lacy white bra, and slowly pulls it off of me, letting it drop to the floor. Then he does the most unexpected thing I can imagine: He slides his arms around me in a tight embrace, bending his dark head to bury his face in the curve of my neck. 

He's hugging me, like a child holds a teddy bear, and squeezing so tightly that I nearly can't breathe. My arms are pinioned at my sides, and one of my elbows is digging into my ribs a bit, but it nevertheless feels very nice. This is what I wanted last night, this is what I needed. Just, to be held. I wish I dared hug him back, but I think that would be a tremendous mistake. 

So, I stand there like a life-size teddy, and let him squeeze me for all he's worth; I wouldn't be surprised to find button-prints from his waistcoat on my skin afterward. 

Then he fastens the harness on me with his usual meticulous care, and fetters my wrists to it at the shoulders, but he leaves my ankles free this time. Once I'm in the position he wants--on my back, knees tucked under my bent elbows--he wags a "stay put!" finger at me, and trots off to remove the rest of his suit and his shirt, and fetch his things from the bathroom. I still have great trepidation at the approach of the shaving kit, but it's less of an ordeal this time around, and Holmes is humming along with with music, clearly enjoying himself. I guess he does like making things tidy.

When things get down to business, he gradually becomes very bitey again, and as usual he is not at all gentle, but neither is he brutal. I flinch at times, but don't feel the need to tell him to back off; it occurs to me that he is probably perfectly aware of what my tolerances are.

He moves me around quite a lot, which is probably why he left my ankles undone, and I make a game of anticipating just where he's going to want to explore and nip next, and offering that up even before he has a chance to know it himself. It's more interesting than just lying there, although I wonder if I should be encouraging him. He finally ends up curled behind me with his teeth tightly clamped onto the top of my shoulder, his long arms wrapped close around me. The room is warm from the late-setting July sun beating on the blinds, and I can feel his undershirt is damp with sweat where it presses against my back.

Once inside me, he is not so much pounding as rocking, holding me very close, and when he is finished, he doesn't jump up and run as soon as he has caught his breath. He lingers, just a little, and I use my inner muscles to give him a sly, close hug before he slips out of me; the Agency's training included all sorts of fun tricks a girl can do. For that, I was a very apt pupil.

Very shortly after Holmes departs and I have tidied things up, Sara finally calls me back, and we bubble at each other happily. I describe the flat to her, and she very much wants to come see it, but I have to tell her no.

_"No visitors allowed at all, sorry. It's a clause he added to the contract, and I don't think breaking it would be a good idea. He would know if I had someone over, I really think he would."_

_"You think the place is under surveillance?"_

I remember the CCTV cameras following me and the Canadian. _"Yes, I definitely do. So, let's wait until the three months are up, like the day before they are, then I'll have you over for tea or something."_

_"Think you'll make it to the end, the whole time? You weren't too certain about him before. Is it okay?"_

_"I'm fine."_ I think about how prickly and sarcastic he was tonight--downstairs, at least. _"He always seems to be trying to pick a fight with me, though! Or maybe he just can't resist poking. I'm all right, he's not abusive--and if he gets that way, I can always vote with my feet, like Daddy used to say. "_

 _"Good."_ Our talk veers onto discussion of her relationship with her boyfriend, Richard, and how Pablo is doing without me, and other mundane topics. We make plans for getting together Sunday evening, and we're getting ready to say good-night, when Sara suddenly blurts, _"Oh, I almost forgot, that Aussie friend of yours, Steen, stopped by today. He left a package for you."_

 _"What is it?"_ I ask.

_"How should I know? It's square, wrapped in brown paper, and smaller than a bread box, if that's any help. He seemed really disappointed that you weren't here. I encouraged him to phone you, but he just shook his head. I think you need to call him, at least to say thank you."_

_"I probably will._ "

_"Probably! You have to. He's given you a present, you have to thank him. You know, sometimes you have the worst manners."_

No, not the worst, I think. I know somebody who's worse than me, at least some of the time.

I look at the phone in my hand for a minute after I end the call with Sara. She's right, I should phone Steen. He's obviously tried to bring me a peace offering, and it would be churlish to not accept it. But I'm still mad at him.

For what? For letting me down by being human, and fallible? I snort at myself. Right, and I'm so perfect. Steen letting some envy and jealousy show is pretty minor compared to some of the ways I've shat on friends over the years. 

So I punch in his number. It's a Tuesday night, he usually takes Tuesdays off, why not just get it over with? He answers right away.

 _"Angelica?"_ he sounds cautious.

_"Hey. Yeah, it's me. Sara said you stopped by today."_

_"Yeah, I, ahh, I really need to talk to you."_

_"Fire away! I'm right here."_

_"I shouldn't right now. Not right now. Listen, can we get together, soon? Very soon? Tomorrow?"_

He sounds nervous. I'm not THAT mad at him, why is he nervous? _"Sure, yeah. I've got a hair appointment at Urban Retreat tomorrow at 2, do you want to find me there and we'll go have a coffee afterward?"_

_"Yes, that would work, yes. I'll be there. Have you opened the package I left for you?"_

_"No, I haven't... Hey, are you okay, mate? You don't sound so--"_

_"Just hang onto it, okay? It might be important. I'll explain tomorrow."_


	8. "Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival." ~ CS Lewis

The salon does indeed ring to remind me of my appointment, but why they think that 8:30 am is a good time for that, I'll never know. At least the woman on the other end is cheerful without being phony, and makes sure I know which of their twenty-two stylists will be seeing to me, as well as informing me that I am also scheduled for a manicure-pedicure session after my cut. Well, that's nice of Holmes, is my first thought.

Except, after yesterday, my second thought is that he simply thinks I don't do a good enough job on my own, and need professional help with my grooming. God, going at me yesterday over how I cook my mushrooms! He's probably even specified what nail polish I'm to have. We'll see about that...

Over breakfast, I check my online newsfeeds. No more front-page buzz about the "Call-Girl Killings," just a scant article buried amongst some robbery reports. The last victim--I see her name was Regina Stone--was murdered little more than a week ago, but everyone seems to have moved on. I'm kind of disgusted at what a short attention span the public have these days. I am still in hopes that the killer will be caught; according to the little article, all three victims were definitely shot with the same handgun, but there still are no suspects.

As a last bit of business, I sign onto the escort's forum to catch up on the gossip, only to find that quite a bit of it is about me! I don't know who let it out, but it seems to be general knowledge that I'm on contract with ”Mr. Tate” for a few months, and there are some just plain nosey-parker queries aimed at me. Mindful of Holmes's little speech about discretion and loyalty, I give some vague answers and simply ignore most of it.

On the forum, at least, there is still a lot of discussion about the murders of Calypso and the others. Everyone seems convinced that the killer is going to strike again, and they are all looking over their shoulders. Those that can afford it have started hiring private security to ride along with them after dark, and I am selfishly glad that I don't have to worry about it for a while.

A curious fact emerges from combing through the discussion threads: all three dead women at one time worked for the Agency. Calypso I knew about, because she was famous for quitting to work freelance, but the other two were a surprise. Tanya and Regina apparently both left the Agency a few years ago, or were dismissed; nobody seems to know for sure. A few postings insinuate that the two were breaking the rules about drug use on the job. It might sound odd to worry if a prostitute is using drugs, but at our level of performance it matters; you can't be a superior companion if you are completely strung out. It's one of the things our managers are very strict about.

It's all quite interesting. I bookmark the relevant discussions in case I want to delve more into them later. For now, since I don't feel like going in to the gym, I need to get out my mat and do my at-home workout.

When it comes time to shower and get dressed, I get a nasty surprise when I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror: I have one hell of a bruise on my shoulder! Bloody Holmes and his bloody teeth and bloody oral fixation.

I inspect the damage closely. The bite didn't break the skin at all, and the pressure must have been increased slowly enough not to register as too painful; I don't remember it hurting as much as it looks like it did. It's a horseshoe-shaped stain of various shades of vivid purple on the top of my shoulder, almost four fingers wide. Damn, it's just in the wrong place to cover with make-up, too, because it'll rub off. Inspecting the rest of my skin--where I can see--reveals a few more colourful spots, but nothing that is too obvious. 

After my shower, I assess my clothing options. Covering this thing on my shoulder is actually going to be a problem. It's summer, it's warm—even sweltering hot, if we get lucky—and I like to wear as little clothing as possible, generally speaking. I have exactly one t-shirt with me right now that will cover the bruise, barely, and one skirt that will go with it, my leather mini. So, that's what I wear, and I add a fluttery sheer scarf around my neck, in case things shift around. I don't want to be sitting in a swishy salon looking like a victim of domestic violence; it makes people look down on you.

The forecast is for freshening winds and showers later, so I pack my compact umbrella along with my reader in a slouchy shoulder bag, and away we go.

The place is surprisingly busy, but then I don't usually hang out at Harrods on a Wednesday afternoon. Hell, I don't usually hang out at Harrods, full stop. The sheer size of the salon that takes up the shop's fifth floor is a little overwhelming, but the staff is properly obsequious, and my stylist is adorable. “Jaque”, as her nameplate has her, is all of five feet tall and hops about like an exotic, trim little bird. She makes me feel like a gangly giraffe, all knees and elbows knocking around. 

Jaque has a photo on her phone that was emailed to the salon for my appointment, and she shows it to me so I can visualize the cut I'm to have. It's obviously a scan of a vintage photo; the woman in the picture is about my age, and very pretty. She has high cheekbones, wide blue eyes, and light blond hair cut in a classic shoulder-length bob; from her clothes I would say that the picture was taken mid-60's. Jaque holds up the picture beside my face and raises an eyebrow. _“Whoever she is, Miss, you look quite a lot like her. You could almost be sisters or something.”_

I thank her for the compliment, and we fall into talking about the 60's styles, and hair, and other things that you chat about with a stranger who will shortly be holding very sharp implements very close to your head. Casual banter helps you feel easier about that.

Jaque is efficient, and very good. She's also very discreet, because when she flips the cape off of me at the end, shifting my scarf and uncovering most of the huge bruise on my shoulder, she doesn't miss a beat. She whirls my chair around to face the mirror, so I can see that I'm uncovered and have a chance to fix it, whilst she busies herself with some imaginary lint on the cape. Good woman. I give her some extra on the tip.

I like the cut fine, it flatters my face nicely, and the change makes me feel charged up. I keep flipping my head around to feel the thick sheaf of hair swishing freely around my neck. I look around for Steen as I make my way to one of the manicure rooms, but there are no tall, handsome blond bears in sight, so I send him a text before sitting down to argue with the manicurist about the shade of polish. As I suspected, that has already been specified, and “Janelle” is reluctant to deviate from her orders. They are my nails, so I win, but Janelle makes me promise to absolve her of all responsibility for the consequences of painting my nails pretty shell-pink instead of boring beige.

I emerge from the manicure room with my hands and feet pleasantly tingling from the massages and all the other attention, but my head is a bit woolly from the fumes, and I almost walk right by Steen without seeing him. For his part, he does a double-take at my new haircut, and we burst out laughing at each other. I launch myself around his neck for the usual inappropriate hug, and he staggers back slightly from my assault. 

_“Hey! Careful, there, Angelica.”_

I stand back a little and give him an eyeing. _“Since when did you get all weedy? Are you okay?”_ He looks pale to me, and has rings under his eyes. 

_“I'm fine, I'm fine, girl. Really. C'mon, are you hungry? I'll buy you a bite, I owe you.”_

_“Here? The food here is great, but...let's go someplace a bit more reasonable for tea, okay? You don't have to impress me!”_

_“Naw, let's make it an occasion, right? C'mon.”_ He takes me by the hand like I'm a little girl, and we go down to the food court, deciding on the Cafe and Creperie for tea. As we're being seated, my mobile goes off with a “number unavailable” call. Damn telemarketers. I silence and ignore it.

All the awkwardness of the last time Steen and I met is forgotten, and it's like old times again. He keeps the conversation focused on me, which doesn't escape my notice at all. He's avoiding something, but I'll leave it alone for now, I have so much to tell him.

As I relate all about my attempts to follow Holmes, getting chased around the city, moving into the Knightsbridge flat and everything that happened there yesterday, my phone goes off twice more in a row with “number unavailable” calls; the last time that happened, it was a salesman trying to pitch me a timeshare vacation flat. I'm seriously thinking that I should turn off the ringer when a text comes through: _“Answer your phone. MH”_ Holmes. Damn. 

_“Steen, you know that thing that happens sometimes, when you are talking about someone, and then out of the blue they ring you?”_

_“Yeah....”_

_“Well, I'm going to have to take the next call, okay?”_

_“No worries,”_ and he busies himself with pouring more tea.

The phone rings a moment later, and I answer right away. I'm guessing that Holmes is very cross with me, because his voice is exquisitely soft and pleasant as he tells me that I should expect him to visit at eight-thirty this evening, and to meet him downstairs. I am to be fully-prepared, he adds, because it will be a short visit; I take that to mean that he won't have time to play with shaving and such. 

I answer, _“Absolutely, I'll be ready and waiting for you. Hey,”_ I add on impulse, _“is Sherlock doing better? I hope he's behaving himself and on the mend again.”_

There is a pause, then Holmes answers, _“He's fine. Thank you.”_ And then he hangs up.

I put my phone away with a shrug, and glance up to see Steen frowning at me. _“What?”_ I ask. _“What is it?”_

He shakes his head, and takes some more tea. _“What are you trying to do to that poor bloke?”_

Only Steen would call Mycroft Holmes a bloke, but I don't stop to discuss it. _“What do you mean?”_

 _“Exactly what I said. What are you trying to do to him? The way you were talking just now to him, god, I could hear the emotional grappling hooks going out!”_ He makes his fingers into claws and mimes sinking them into my chest. _“Crikes, from what you said about yesterday, he's got troubles enough without you trying to get your harpy hooks into him.”_

 _“ 'Harpy hooks'!? What the hell do you mean, 'harpy hooks'? Do you think I'm angling to...marry him or something? Jesus, Steen, he's old!”_ I stab at my fruit salad with my fork, glaring.

_“No, no, no, that's not what I meant. I think you're after him emotionally, you're trying to get him to like you. C'mon, Angelica, bringing him drinky-poos when he's sad? Really? That's you taking advantage of a bloke when his defenses are down.”_

_“Taking advantage? How is it taking advantage to be nice to someone when they're having a bad day? That's bollocks.”_

_“Think about it. Why were you being nice? You want him to like you, to be close, and if he won't give you intimacy willingly, you'll take it by stalking him, or wheedle it by manipulating him. I've seen you do this before, you know. You can't stand someone not caring about you.”_

_“What's wrong with that? What's wrong with people caring about each other, as long as they have good boundaries about it?”_

Steen rolls his eyes heavenward. _“Good boundaries, she says. Like it's just so simple.”_

_“I don't think it's that complicated, really.”_

_“Isn't it? Listen, girl, people are complicated, so why would anything to do with people be simple?”_ Steen reaches over and takes up a whole sausage roll in his fingers. 

_“Lecture time, my Padawan learner, so listen up. Let's just pretend that this delicious roll represents relationships. Friendship, romantic love, whatever. The meat in the centre is the basic reason the people are together, the pastry is what gets laid down on top of that reason, gets added to it. So, whenever people interact with each other, every time they have an experience together, another layer of complication gets added onto the relationship, like this.”_ He points to the coil of flaky pastry around the core of sausage in the roll. _“The more intense the experience, the thicker the layer, eh? The layers, the interactions, pile up each time, they accumulate. If I'm going to put boundaries around this thing, this relationship, the layers are going to push against the boundaries, right?”_ He circles the roll tightly with his fingers.

 _“If the layers get thick enough, the experiences intense enough, the boundaries are either going to have to move, or I am going to have to really work hard to keep them where they are.”_ Ridiculously, he quietly mimes wrestling to keep his fingers around the sausage roll. _“So, after a while, it takes all the energy you can muster just to keep the damn thing from blowing up in your face, or from crumbling to bits.”_

Steen plops the mangled roll on his plate and wipes his fingers with his serviette, looking at me expectantly. I decide to play along with his silliness.

 _“So, Jedi Master Steen, how do we avoid the catastrophe of the sausage roll? Is there no hope for humanity?”_ I help myself to more tea, and a sausage roll of my own.

_“There's only one way out that I know of, Angelica, and that is to take the take the 'together' out of it entirely. If you both have your own experience and there's no involvement, no layers get added because you're not in it together, no matter how intense the experience is. Each stays separate, the boundaries don't get shifted, everybody stays safe.”_

It's a silly analogy, but it suddenly makes terrible sense to me. _“Yeah, safe, and alone, and lonely. That's not what I want out of life! That's not healthy. Listen, I know--”_ I reach out to grab Steen's hand. _“I know how not to care too much. I know how to keep the boundaries with a client, I really do. You don't need to worry.”_

Beautiful green eyes peer at me steadily. _“I've got my doubts, girl. I'm telling you, don't get involved. Isn't the money enough? Why do you have to go after the man's soul? You don't need that, and neither does he.”_

 _“Oh, my god, you are such a drama queen! Go after his soul? What the hell?”_ I lower my voice, then, because I realize that I've been getting louder. _“So, why does he matter to you? How do you know what he needs, or doesn't?”_

 _“He doesn't matter, you do! I'd hate to see you have a sausage roll blow up in your face,”_ Steen gives me a flash of a white-toothed smile. _“And I know the bloke because he was one of my off-and-on regulars for years—years, girl! You get to know each other, even if you don't talk much.”_

I shrug. _“Maybe it's time for him to change. I think he's having a mid-life crisis, actually. He's the right age for it, and he has all the markers. One of my books says it's like an iceberg inversion; apparently, icebergs can just spontaneously flip, under the right conditions, and all that stuff that was underwater and unseen, suddenly all that is on top and in the open, and you have to deal with it. The person becomes possessed by the parts of themselves that they haven't allowed to live.”_

Steen shakes his head with an impatient noise. _“Pop psychology garbage.”_

I give him a not-really-playful glare. _“You'd better be careful, Steen Dijkstra! You're almost forty, you know. Any minute now you are going to feel the urge to express the parts of you that you've been suppressing! You're going to cut your hair short, get a real job, and marry a woman half your age, named Betty. And have five kids.”_

He gives me a look of mock horror. _“Oh, god, no, just shoot me now!”_ Then, he's serious again, _“But some people, Angelica, some people don't change so easily. They don't bend, they break, and it could get very messy if you're in the middle of it.”_

 _“Yes, Master Steen,”_ I sigh. And change the subject, because I'm tired of talking about it. We chat for a while about the murders, but neither of us has anything new on that topic. I ask Steen about the package he left for me at Sara's house, and he looks mysterious and tells me that we can't talk about it here, that we have to stop by his flat, and he'll fill me in there.

I look around surreptitiously. _“Are we being watched? Listened to?”_

He shakes his head, but says _“Probably not—but just in case, I think we should talk about it in private, okay?”_

 _“Probably not? What have you got yourself into?”_ I demand, but he doesn't answer me, and I give it up for now.

Before we go to the stand to hire a cab and go to Steen's place, I make him go with me to choose out a few high-neck tops, and soon we are buried in a sea of racks in a quiet corner of the ladies' department.

 _“High-neck? That's a new look for you, Angelica. Poor time of year for it, though, and I think you'd look better in this--”_ he holds up a very nice blue-green top with a wide, low neckline. _“Plays up those wide shoulders of yours, and that elegant neck, see? A high crew neck will just make you look chunky-monkey...whoa!”_ I have discreetly peeled back the scarf and shirt to show him the bruise on my shoulder. _“Hey, I didn't know you were getting into the heavy stuff. I thought you didn't like pain?”_

 _“I don't. It was an accident, it really didn't hurt at the time...”_ Steen peers closely at the mark with an air of professional interest.

 _“That is quite a piece of work. The pressure would have to be applied slowly and with a lot of restraint to keep from going through the skin.”_ He shakes his head. _“Damn. Does he bite you a lot?”_

_“Sometimes. He's a bitey guy, isn't he? You know, oral fixation.”_

Steen gives me an odd look. _“Never with me. Never. Not once. I think....”_ He trails off, and gently covers up my shoulder for me.

_“You think what?”_

_“Well, I think somebody has some pretty specific anger issues, and that's all I'm going to say.”_

I don't quiz him any further because I don't want to hear it, and instead we find me some things that I can wear and be socially acceptable until I heal up. During the cab ride to his flat, Steen gives me his take on aftercare for bruises and other job-related injuries, for future reference, and we both notice the cabbie's ears turning red a few times. We exchange grins, and it's hard to keep from laughing out loud. 

Things don't get weird until we reach his flat, but then they go completely balls-up. 

Steen's flat has been broken into, and ransacked. The place is an unholy mess, just torn apart. Shocked and furious, I whip out my phone to call 999, but Steen knocks the mobile out of my hand before I can dial. _“Hey!”_ I shout, retrieving it from the floor.

_“No police, for god's sake. Please, just let me deal with it. I don't think they took anything, I really doubt it.”_

_“Why? What were they looking for? What's going on?”_

_“We can't stay here to talk. C'mon.”_ Steen grabs my hand and pulls me out of the flat and down the stairs again. As we round the last landing and are nearly down, two young men start coming up, and block our way. Steen tries to push me behind him, back up the stairs, hissing, _“Get out of here, Angel. Go!”_

I look at the blokes standing there a few steps below us. They are weedy, greasy boys, dressed in dirty t-shirts and jeans, and look unarmed except for a nasty attitude. I'm nearly a head taller than either of them, and Steen is broader than both put together. I look at Steen, and back at the blokes. _“No,”_ I say to everyone in general. _“No, I am not getting out of here. You,”_ I tell the greasers, _“you are going to move out of our way.”_ I am so angry, I really hope they give me an excuse to do some harm.

One of them says something to the other in a language I should recognize, but don't, and he says to Steen in English, _“We want the torch, Dijkstra, and we want it now, or we are going to beat it out of your poofy ass!”_ They both start to move up the steps; Steen shouts something and starts toward them, but I beat all three of them to the punch. 

The stupid bastards are at the worst possible disadvantage they could be. I have gravity, reach, and surprise on my side. The first one goes over the banister before he knows what hit him. The second one has time to see my foot coming up to connect with his face, but not enough time to do anything about it.

Steen stands there, looking at me like I've sprouted horns or something, and then looks at the unconscious punks. I just shrug. _“Karate brown belt. I should've gone on for the black, but I lost interest.”_

He shakes his head. _“We...we really need to get out of here. I have to figure this out.”_

_“How about your local? I could do with a pint of cider about now.”_

_“That's as good as anything, I guess.”_

One of Steen's neighbors comes into the entry way, and looks from the body lying at the foot of the stairs to us with consternation. We both smile and give the lady a breezy wave as we vault the rest of the way down the steps and head out into the street. It's getting darker outside, and the wind is really whipping around, but the showers haven't started yet.

Steen and I make for the neighborhood pub, and take a table in a quiet corner by the back door. I am still shaking from the adrenaline rush, and suck down a cold cider in hopes that the alcohol will steady me. Steen holds his head in his hands, looking down at his untouched pint.

 _“It's time for you to tell me what the hell is going on,”_ I tell him quietly.

He shakes his head. _“The less you know, the better for you. I'm sorry you're here at all, I didn't think they knew where I lived. I thought I had heaps more time than this.”_

_“How about you give me just a general idea of what's going on, then? Let's start with, what were they looking for in your flat? The one guy said something about a torch. What torch?”_

Steen shakes his head again. _“All I can tell you is that something fell into my hands, that some people want. It'll be bad if any of them gets hold of it, but I can't just destroy it, either, and I can't go to the police with it. Don't ask, I just can't. It won't matter in a few months anyway, so all I have to do is keep dodging them for a while longer.”_

_“Well, it looks like dodging them just got a lot harder.”_

_“Yeah, it has.”_ He takes a pull at his pint. _“Right. I'm going to have to leave the country for a while, that's the only thing I can think of.”_

 _“Adelaide, or Amsterdam?”_ I know he has family in both places, but not which one he might be able to run to.

_“I'm going to do you a favor and not tell you. Like I said, the less you know, the better. We're going to leave here, and I am going to stop at a cashpoint to empty my current account, right? And then we'll go to the taxi stand, and I will put you in a taxi to get you back to your flat, and I will take one to the airport and get the hell out of here on the first flight possible. Sound like a plan?”_

_“If that's what you want to do, I'm for it. One last thing, though.”_

_“What?”_

_“Does that package you left for me at Sara's have anything to do with any of this mess?”_

_“No, it doesn't,”_ he says, but he looks away when he says it. _“It's just a book I thought you might like to read. You're the only one of my friends who cares anything for books or reading. Hang onto it for me, though, after you're finished? I'll want it back.”_

_“Sure. No problem.”_

We are both nervous as we leave the pub and hit the cashpoint, but there are no more followers. There is, however, a police car in front of Steen's building, so we make sure to take the long way around the block to get to the nearest taxi stand. 

Steen tries to give me the fare for the cab back to Knightsbridge, but I tell him he needs to conserve his cash. I expect to just give him a quick hug and go, but he is suddenly very emotional. He holds me tight, parking his chin on top of my head. _“You're like the little sister I never wanted, you know? Take care of yourself, girl. Just—I don't know, just take care. I'll contact you when I can. It'll come right, you'll see.”_

 _“Looks like we added a fat layer onto that sausage roll today, didn't we, Obi-wan?”_ I grin, and Steen gives me a wan smile and a kiss on the forehead. As he tucks me into the taxi, it starts to rain in earnest.

# # #

I spend the rest of the day and evening watching it pour outside, and trying to pull the pieces together about what happened this afternoon. 

In the end, all I have are more questions. What could be so important about a torch? How would Steen get his hands on a torch that mattered, and why would it not matter anymore in a few months? I simply cannot make any sense of it, there's just not enough information.

When the clock flashes to eight-thirty, I'm curled up on the sofa, reading. I hear the front door being unlocked. It swings open, and Holmes steps through, umbrella-first, dripping. He quickly holsters it in the umbrella stand, and sets a slim briefcase down on the floor beside. He shuts the door and turns the deadbolt. I put down my reader and come over to lean against the stair railing.

 _“Hey.”_ I say and fluff my my fingers through the even-cut bottom of my new hairstyle. It still feels strange to my fingers.

Holmes turns, and regards me, his face completely neutral. He's not cold and menacing, but he's not the guy who yesterday was sitting on the sofa fretting, either. This is another Holmes entirely. He smiles a faint, pleasant smile, and says in a milky voice, _“Well, you had an exciting day with your Australian friend, didn't you?”_ The way he says “friend” it could be a swear word, and I'm completely unsurprised that Holmes knows something about what happened today; I'd be shocked if he didn't. 

But he continues. _“You have a choice to make, Angel. You can stay in my employ, or you can continue to carry on with your friend. You cannot do both.”_

That is completely unexpected. _“What? Why? What's wrong with Steen...?”_

 _“Oh, I'm sure that there's nothing wrong with him, per se. It's the company he keeps these days.”_ Holmes leans forward, into my face a little, and lowers his voice dramatically. _“Drug dealers, Angel. Importers of illegal substances. People that we keep a watch on, and your Australian is involved with them. I'm sure you understand my position.”_

Damn it, Steen! Damn it all to hell. _“You're sure?”_ Holmes just gives me a look, a please-don't-be-stupid look. _“Right, of course you're sure.”_ I sigh deeply. _“Well, he beat you to it, actually. He...told me today that I wouldn't be hearing from him for a while, that he was leaving the country shortly.”_ I shrug. _“So, I guess it's a moot point, isn't it?”_

 _“Please see that it remains moot.”_ He puts his hands in his pockets, and his tongue goes between his molars for a moment. _“I would also like to remind you that your contract with me specifies that you will refrain from other liasions for the duration...”_

_“Steen and I didn't—I mean, we don't—we aren't involved that way, we never have been...”_

Holmes gives me a faint smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, _“Certainly, of course. Just a reminder, then.”_ His eyes are narrowed, pupils contracted. He doesn't believe me. Fine, whatever.

 _“Now, I'd like to clarify things for you, regarding your position here. I believe you have become confused.”_ He rolls up on his toes. What now? _“Please understand that you and I are not 'pals.' Your queries about my personal life are not welcome, and no more of it will be tolerated. Am I making myself clear?”_

I bite my lip; I really shouldn't have asked about Sherlock on the phone earlier today. _“It's a friendly business, but we're not friends?”_

He nods emphatically. _“Precisely. No more attempts to socialize, please. I've asked you before to be quiet.”_

What? Oh, come on! _“That's true, you did. Then you sat over there with your newspaper and talked to me. So, am I supposed to just ignore you? What, exactly, do you want from me?”_ I cross my arms defensively. _“Perhaps I'm not the only one who is feeling confused here. Sir.”_

He draws in a breath, with raised eyebrows, and I can hear the sarcasm gathering—then the tongue goes back between the teeth, and he looks down and away from me. He sighs. _“Perhaps not.”_ And I glimpse _him_ again for a moment, the guy who fusses and worries and hugs like a lost child.

But the moment passes, and Holmes folds his expression back into totally neutral—however, he crosses his arms, and I wonder, does he know he's mirroring me? _“Perhaps both of us need to make an effort to remain...businesslike. That, exactly, is what I want from you.”_

I nod. _“I can do that, as long as you do. Just...let's not take it amiss if either of us need reminding now and again, okay? It's a very friendly sort of business. Easy to get confused.”_

_“Yes. Yes, it is.”_

Then I give him a questioning sort of look, and wait. He glances upstairs, and nods to me. I start up the stairs, but I'm halted by a soft chime from Holmes' breast pocket, and he takes out his phone to look at the text with a sigh.

 _“Well, it's back to the office for me. Looks like you get a reprieve tonight.”_

I go back down the steps. _“But you don't.”_

Shaking his head, he picks up the briefcase and umbrella, dialing his phone with the thumb of one hand. _“No, I don't.”_

I open the door for him, and he goes out the way he came in, umbrella-first. The rain is still pouring down. Holmes shakes his brolly open and, speaking quietly on his phone, starts off down the cobbles toward the headlights of a waiting car.


	9. "There is that in the glance of a flower which may at times control the greatest of creation's braggart lords." ~ John Muir

“Businesslike” lasted all of twenty-four hours. I'm standing under the little overhang in front of the flat, trying to keep reasonably dry as I scroll through the numbers on my phone, looking for the minicab I usually call. If it wasn't raining quite so much, or if I had thought to grab my umbrella—or his!--then I would just take off walking, but I'm not going back in there to get one. I don't care if I ever go back in.

Despite being grey and drizzly, today was great until just a few minutes ago; I got up and away early to avoid the Thursday housekeeper, spent the morning at the gym, and then met with my friends Amy and Christine for lunch and noon-time window-shopping. They were about as much fun as I expected them to be--

Listen to me damn them with faint praise! There are a few downsides to escort work, and a big one is relationships. Like, whom do you tell that you've taken to upscale whoring to pay the bills? Whom _don't_ you tell? Amy and Tina are friends I made at uni, and they're smart and funny and very, very conventional; I know they wouldn't be okay with what I do for a living, so I lie. And since most of what I'm telling them is a lie and I can't ever relax around them, they're not so much fun anymore.

But if you tell friends what you do, as in total disclosure, then they get very, very uncomfortable around you, and mysteriously have other engagements whenever you call. Been there, done that. It must be what coming out is like. I think of Steen then, and break a grin; he has the funniest coming-out story ever, about the day his gran found out that he was gay and an escort, to boot. I hope that big idiot is okay, wherever he is right now.

A gust of wind blows some of the light rain against my bare arms and legs, and I shiver. I wish I'd thrown on warmer clothes, or grabbed a jacket or something, but I didn't know that it had turned quite so chilly outside. Finally, I find the number for the cab driver, and punch it in impatiently, shielding my phone from the stray splatters of rain. 

Holmes had been businesslike enough when he called this afternoon, telling me to expect him at half past eight tonight. I was businesslike as I acknowledged it. It was all very efficient and businesslike when he came upstairs at the appointed time, sat down in the armchair, and stretched his long legs out, relaxing into his ritual of enjoyment. It was very businesslike right up until he slid the top of my dress down off my shoulders, and saw the colourful bruise there, the outline of teeth now clearly visible in darker purpling, although the span of it was starting to fade into green and yellow at the further edges.

His eyes had widened and his cheeks burned with bright red patches, like he had been slapped. Swallowing, he looked at me, then back down at the mark.

 _“Well,”_ he said. He quickly regained his composure, although his cheeks stayed slightly flushed. _“Well, that won't do at all.”_ He leaned in close, examining the bruise. _“That certainly is my bicuspid. I can't have anyone seeing this. You'll have to stay in until it heals completely, I should think in another six or seven days, possibly as much as a fortnight.”_

 _“What? No.”_ Two weeks of house arrest? He's mad. _“No way. Look, I've been covering it quite nicely for two days now with nobody the wiser. There's no need for me to hide away.”_

 _“Clothing can slip, makeup can rub off. You will simply have to stay indoors, here, until Wednesday at least. I will re-assess the situation and make a decision then.”_ He turned away from me as if the matter was settled, and reached for the black gym bag. _“Off with the rest of it, please.”_

 _“No.”_ I folded my arms stubbornly. _“No, not until we settle this. I am NOT putting myself under house arrest over an easily-concealed bruise. That's stupid, and I won't do it.”_

He turned around slowly, and his face was a tightly-controlled mask of neutrality. He gave me a careful slight frown then, as if of concern. _“You are in breach of your contract,”_ he said softly.

 _“So are you,”_ I replied, matching his tone. _“You may not restrict my activities.”_

_“Except where they might impact on my reputation, Miss Talbot. I believe that this qualifies.”_

_“I disagree. The mark can be covered up, like it has been, until it heals. I'm not going to be showing it around, and the chances of an accidental exposure are slim.”_ I didn't mention about the stylist, Jaque, seeing it. _“I've even bought some new clothes just to keep it covered securely. Requiring me to hide away is an overreaction.”_

He raised an eyebrow at that. _“Overreaction? Think whatever you like. You will stay here, out of the public eye, until I am satisfied that the mark is sufficiently faded, or our agreement is terminated.”_ That last was carefully enunciated, then he pressed his lips together in a tight line, narrowing his eyes at me with a little twitch.

I've never played poker, but I've heard of “calling the bluff.” I called his bluff. I slid my slinky red dress back up over my shoulders, slipped into some shoes, and went downstairs. I stuffed my reader into my handbag, and only paused in the entryway long enough to call up the stairs, _“If you would be so kind, Mr. Holmes, please have my things sent along to my sister's flat when convenient. Oh, and you might try a prescription for Luna; I've read that it's a very effective new sleeping aid. Good luck.”_ The door made a satisfying “thump” when it closed behind me.

So now I'm freezing my arse off, standing here in the blowing rain, trying get my phone to work. I used it not half an hour ago to talk to Sara and it was fine, but now it's not dialing. 

The status bar says there is no signal. How the hell can I have no signal? I'm in the bloody middle of bloody London; there is so much signal here that loonies walk around in tinfoil hats to shed the excess, how can my phone not be finding any? 

Could he...? No way. Is that even possible? Well, why not? I can imagine him up there as I was leaving, phoning one of his assistants, _“Be a good fellow and just jam up her signal, will you, there's a chap. No, don't kill her yet, let's just terrorize her a little.”_

Okay, so it probably didn't go like that, but it's not so far-fetched that he could have my mobile signal jammed if he wanted to. I've seen what he can make happen.

Why would he want to? 

Could be a show of power and control. I called his bluff, he's showing me that he has power over me, so I shouldn't fight him. Could be. 

Could be he's trying to frighten me, intimidate me. He's used intimidation before, I'll bet it's one of his favorite tactics.

Bloody bastard. Who does he think he is? I am starting to work myself into a righteous fury, when I suddenly remember a saying of one of my favorite psych professors: Behavior is communication. He used to say that over and over, Behavior is communication. What is the behavior? Holmes is making it difficult for me to leave. He's not preventing me or overtly threatening me, he's just making it difficult. I can walk away, I can run away, I just can't call a cab to come and drive me away in comfort. 

What is being communicated? I can go away if I want to, but he'd rather I didn't. He's not the sort of man to come out here and say, Please don't go. 

And, the bit about power is definitely in there as well. Very elegant way to make multiple points. 

I put my phone away in my handbag so it will keep dry, as the gusts are blowing more chilly rain at me. I have to make a decision: I can't stay out here all night, and I really don't fancy walking to the Tube station in the wet and riding the train to Sara's dressed in a soaking, see-through, scanty red dress. I like attention, but not of that sort.

So, I'm going to go back inside, like he wants me to. What then? I won't go meekly like a little lambie. I'm not giving in on this stupid house arrest thing. On the other hand, I didn't exactly try to negotiate a compromise with him. Good grief, he must really feel ashamed of hurting me like that, to be so paranoid about being found out...Oh! Aaannd, there it is. 

In a flash of insight the thread is clear to me. I see how to handle this; I know what it's for. I know what needs to happen. I turn around and charge back through the blue door before I have a chance to lose my nerve.

The flat is quiet; he's turned off the music. Holmes is sitting on the sofa, a drink before him on the coffee table, elbows on his knees and palms together under his chin, like I saw him when he took refuge at that wedding. He doesn't look up as I come in. I take up the fringed throw from one of the armchairs to wrap up in, and I sit down, kicking my soggy shoes off and hugging the throw around me. 

I impulsively, intuitively say the first thing that comes into my head. _“You know, I get so frustrated with you, I could just blow my brains out.”_

His eyes flicker over at me, once, and his lips barely move as he says clearly, _“Wherever would you aim?”_

Yes, that's it, right there. I lean forward toward him, urgently. _“You know, I can tell you aren't a rude person, yet you're often rude to me. You aren't a cruel person, either, yet you can't help wanting to hurt me. Why is that, do you think?”_

He just closes his eyes, and gives his head an imperceptible shake. He won't go there. All right, I'm going to do it for him. _“You aren't used to needing anyone, for anything, are you?”_ He raises his eyelids and looks at me, nothing alive in his face but those startling blue eyes. _“But now you find that you need someone, Me! and you resent the hell out of that, don't you? You resent needing me, and you resent me. You weren't just talking about Sherlock the other day, you were talking about yourself.”_

He blinks then, a long, slow, owl-like blink. I'm not sure what that means, so I press on, relentless. _“Resentment molders into anger, and anger festers into hatred—and something like hatred can't be completely suppressed, it will out, in the strangest ways. Like sarcasm, and aggression. Biting words, biting teeth....”_

His eyes slide away from me, and his head twitches ever so slightly away. I mustn't hammer too hard on that point.

 _“This thing on my shoulder represents all of that, the whole shitty mess, doesn't it? So the thought that anybody would see it becomes completely unendurable.”_ His eyes flicker up to me again, and he raises an eyebrow, just a hair. 

I get up, holding the throw still wrapped around me. _"I'm not going to be imprisoned in this flat for a fortnight because of your unresolved issues. I simply won't. But I am willing to compromise a bit, if you are willing to. If not, then that's that. and we're done."_

I go upstairs, then, because I'm chilled to the bone and all I want is a hot bath to warm me up; I toss in some lavender salts to make the water a pretty purple and smell nice. Ahhhh. You wouldn't think I could get so cold on a night in late July, honestly. What a lousy climate. One of these days I'm moving someplace where they actually have summer. 

I soak every bit of myself in the steamy lavender water, right up to the top of my head, until I'm rosy and warm again, then wrap up in a thick towel and use another one to ruffle around and dry my hair. A nice benefit of shorter hair is how quickly it dries with just a good toweling. 

When I come out of the bathroom, all tousled and be-toweled, I'm kind of surprised to see Holmes sitting in the armchair beside the bed, in just his trousers and rolled-up shirtsleeves. I really thought he had left, since the flat was so quiet. He gets up slowly from the chair, puts his hands in his pockets, and regards me solemnly.

_"I believe I owe you an apology."_

_"Not at all,"_ I reply pertly. _"It's all just part of the friendly service."_

He actually almost smiles at that, and tucks his tongue in his cheek as he looks down. He comes over to where I am, standing beside the wardrobe, and looks at my hair with a frown. He begins to lightly re-arrange the messy strands, carefully tucking it behind my ears.

 _"I've always known exactly what I was doing, you know,"_ he says absently. _"Always. People around me were...less capable than I would have liked...I've always taken care of myself. So it would be done properly."_ He is totally absorbed in arranging each and every strand of my hair where it belongs; his gaze is a million miles away.

 _"I have always known exactly what I was doing, and why I was doing it--until now. When I come here, to you...I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I just don't know. Can you imagine?"_ Here, he pauses his busy fingers, and looks into my face. _"Imagine me, not knowing what I'm doing. Terrifying."_

I hold his eyes with mine, and wait for the words to come to me. _"Maybe it's time for that, to experience not knowing. Maybe right now you just need one corner of your life to be a little...messy."_

He looks slightly aghast, and shakes his head, smoothing my hair into perfect shape. His eyes slide down to the top of my shoulder, followed by slender fingers; he gently brushes over the vivid purple mark there and down the curve of my bare shoulder and arm, then firmly grasps my wrist. _"So beautiful, and I've marred you. I'm sorry."_

Wow. He's sorry to have marred something beautiful--not sorry that he hurt me. Now, that's a telling statement if I've ever heard one. Sympathy, but no empathy.

I shrug. _"It will heal quickly enough, there won't be a scar."_

He nods, then un-tucks the towel I have wrapped around me, and it falls in a damp heap to the floor. He wraps his free hand around my other wrist, then pulls both of my arms behind me and upwards as he draws me towards him, pressing his cheek against mine; he doesn't have to lean down. There is just the faintest rasp of beard on my sensitive cheek, and I am enveloped in the smell of him: gentleman's cologne, plain soap, and traces of a muskiness that has to be the man himself. 

My arms are pinioned behind me, pretzel-twisted as he holds me tightly and nuzzles into the side of my neck. My breath catches and I shudder when he gets around my ear, and the bastard starts to play with that, using his lips, teeth and tongue to just about send me silently screaming. He attends thoroughly to the other side, with the same results. I can feel his breath coming quicker and sharper, and the urgent press of his body against mine leaves no doubt that he is ready for me, right now. 

He releases my arms to rummage in the black bag, pulling out the leather fetters, and his fingers tremble just a little as he buckles them around my wrists. He pulls my arms back behind me to clip my wrists together at my waist, and moves me over to the bed, guiding me to lay down on my back in the middle of it. 

Turning to the clothing rack, he flips his braces off his shoulders quickly, hardly folding his trousers as he takes them off, and I've never seen a man unbutton and hang up a shirt so fast. I have a flicker of hope that the rest might be coming off, too, but alas, the damned vest and pants stay right where they are. 

When he lies down beside me, his eyes laser-lock on mine as he fondles and caresses me, breaking only to find and apply a condom. He puts my legs over his shoulders then, and once again we are face-to-face, eye-to-eye as he moves in me. The contact is easier for me this time; although I still feel laid bare by it, I'm not so raw.

As the climax takes him, his whole body shudders and trembles with it, but he still doesn't blink. It seems to go on forever, then he finally closes his eyes and collapses on top of me, gasping. If I were a frail little thing I would have the air squashed out of me, but I'm no wisp of a girl.

After a few minutes, he rolls off, I expect to do his usual road-runner routine--but he doesn't. He lies beside me, still breathing heavily, looking in my face with solemn regard. 

Unexpectedly, he says, _"It's harder to tell with women, but you didn't orgasm, did you?"_

Oh, lord, he's not going to turn into one of _those_ , is he? _"No, and no thank you."_

 _“Why not?”_ he asks.

_“I don't want to. That's all.”_

He reaches down. _“I could make you....”_

I writhe away from his probing fingers. _“No, you can't.”_ The look he gives me means a challenge has been issued, and he shifts around to better reach me. _“No, really, I mean it. You can't. You can work at it all night, and I wouldn't have an orgasm. You could put an electro-stim down there, and I wouldn't come.”_ He looks skeptical at that, and I shake my head for emphasis. _“Nope. You can force the neural reflex, but you can't force a real orgasm. Sorry.”_

 _“I'm not interested in forcing you, I just don't understand why someone who obviously enjoys sex as much as you do,”_ here he holds up his sticky, wet hand in wonder, _“doesn't want to be pleasured in turn.”_

_“Oh, you understand all right. It's about boundaries; we all draw our own lines. You don't french kiss, do you?”_

He makes a face. _“No. It's far too...intimate.”_

_"Nor get fully undressed..."_

_"I don't care to be touched."_

_"See? Boundaries. I told you that you already understand. By the way, I'd like to point out that this conversation is hardly businesslike, and is even perilously close to socializing."_

His lips curve in a ghost of a smile. _"Yes. It is rather messy, isn't it?"_

I silently turn my face to look up at the underside of the canopy. It has tiny green flowers on it. He rises up on one elbow so we are face-to-face again.

_"This is an odd thing to be negotiating about, but what would it take for you to allow me to pleasure you?"_

_"Why? Why does it matter?"_

He shrugs. _"I'm curious. I want to know what you look like, what you sound like. I believe you are familiar with sudden urges of intense curiosity..."_ His faint smile now has a demonic cast to it.

Bastard. I let out a loud sigh. _"How about if I just fake one for you? Would that be sufficient? I'm very good, most people can't even tell the difference."_

 _"I am not most people,"_ he says that with only a touch of arrogance.

 _"No, you're not."_ I sigh again, and I realize that he's not going to let go of this. Then I have an idea. Sweetly, I say, _"Hey, I know, we can barter. Let's say, you take off your vest and pants, the full Monty, and I'll let you make me squeal for real."_ There, he's not going to go for that, not with all his issues. 

He frowns, and looks a little suspicious. _"Why would you care if I were naked or not?"_

 _"I don't like the feel of cloth, I like skin,"_ I say honestly, and silently add _And you look a right berk._ He hesitates like he's actually thinking about it, and I start to doubt my strategy. 

Then I cannot believe my eyes. The bastard calls my bluff. He kneels up on the bed, skinning off his vest and pants quick as a flash, then lies back down beside me. _"Now, then,"_ he says languidly, reaching downward again. _"You squeal, do you? That's very interesting."_

Bloodybloodybloodyhell. His fingers slither around, randomly hitting sensitive spots that send a shiver through me; he obviously has very little idea of what he's doing. I could try to fake it, but I really do think he would know the difference. I sigh, and tell myself to stop being silly; I proposed a dare, and I misjudged it and lost. So, buck up and let's get it over with.

 _"Okay, okay, okay. Just this once, alright? So, this would be the easiest way..."_ I outline for him how to position his hand, palm-up, so his thumb is resting on my very-aroused clit, and two long fingers are poised to thrust deep against my engorged g-spot. It takes him a few minutes to get coordinated and get a rhythm going, but in a very short time I am writhing around for real. He bends his head down to flick his tongue across my erect nipples now and then, or run his teeth against my ear, both of which send me even higher. 

I have my eyes closed, and there is nothing real except the intense pleasure of his strong fingers strumming me deeper and deeper into myself. I am dimly aware that the tension is making my body arch off the bed; I am suspended between my heels and the top of my head, with everything in-between thrusting up toward his remorseless, delicious hand. Then, like a bow-string when the shaft is loosed, I snap downward in release, with a full-throated cry that quivers on and on. 

It seems like it's never going to stop, but eventually the waves recede and I can breathe again, my breath coming in short gasps. I can tell he's not sure if he should keep up what he's doing, because the rhythm is gone and it's starting to get annoying, so I clamp my legs together and shift away. He slides his wet hand along my heaving belly, and I open my eyes to see him gazing at me with something like total surprise, and a little awe.

 _"Interesting. Very interesting,"_ is what he says, but he doesn't look so clinical as that. I can feel his body against mine, skin to skin finally, and I can also feel that he is aroused again, not rock-hard and straining, but definitely interested. 

Twice in the same night is fairly unusual for a man at his age, but I guess watching me has too much of an effect to ignore. I am still flopping around like jelly, so relaxed that I can hardly stir myself, so he just rolls me over and shoves a pillow under the front of my hips, hoisting my bum into the air, and slides into me again from behind, moving hard and fast. After this one, though, he doesn't rest against me at all, but jumps away like usual as soon as he's caught his breath. 

I hear him in the bathroom, taking a shower, and I roll over and work my legs and feet over the top of my bound wrists, so my arms are in front of me; my shoulders were beginning to get a little tired of being rotated behind. I could use my teeth to undo the buckles, but I want him to do it, so I curl up with my head on the pillow and wait. 

It doesn't take him long, and he does his usual thing, getting dressed quickly and precisely. When he has his tie knotted and waistcoat buttoned, he reaches over the bed and unbuckles one of my wrists, then one fingertip gently taps the top of my shoulder where the bruise is. 

_"It really is very important to me that you keep that covered, Angel."_

_"I know it is. I don't want anyone to see it either, it's...tacky. I really can keep it out of sight, though. I wasn't joking about buying new shirts just for that."_

_"I should reimburse you the cost of those..."_

_"Would you stop already with the guilt? It's not a big deal, really it's not. But I'll go out as little as possible for the next few days, okay? The only thing I really want to go do is to see my sister this weekend, maybe Sunday."_

_"I'd appreciate if you could keep Sunday free. If all goes well, an extremely difficult situation should be resolved by then, and I shall be able to take the entire day off. I would enjoy not having to rush."_

_"I can do that, Saturday would work just as well to visit Sara. Ring me when you know the time for Sunday."_

_"Yes."_

Then, he's gone, and I'm left alone with my thoughts. What the hell just happened? I swore to myself when I started this job that there were some parts of myself that I wouldn't give away to any client, no matter what, and here I am doing just that. 

I examine my feelings about Holmes. Is Steen right, am I just trying to get my emotional hooks into the man? Am I falling in love? There isn't that insane craving for his company that I get when I'm in love, I know that for sure. It's...interesting when Holmes is here, but I actually feel relieved when he leaves. I still want to know more about him, but it's very different from other times I've been involved. 

I'm attached to him, though. That's it, attached, in a very odd way. I wonder what he feels about me, but I doubt that he could articulate it, even if he would care to try.

I tidy up and wander downstairs for a late snack before going to bed. I toast a bagel and make some milky tea, curling up on the sofa to enjoy it, but then there is the faint chime from my handbag. My phone is telling me that there are new messages.

I check it, and see that Holmes must have had my mobile service restored, since I now have signal and two voicemail messages. The first is from my manager, just a routine check-in; the second is from Steen, and is very disturbing. He's just babbling, and I can hardly hear what he's saying over the sounds of traffic in the background.

_"Angelica, Angel girl, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, but you have to get the torch to the pigman, I'm sorry to do this to you, but you have to, okay? That's the only way to stop this thing, take it to the pigman, eh? Right away!"_

I play it twice, and still can't make head or tails of it. I ring him back, but the call goes straight to his mailbox, which is full. Since I can't leave a voice message, I send him a text instead, asking him to try calling again. 

The torch? To the pigman? I would love to know what the hell is going on, but there's nothing I can do for him right now. I carefully save the message for further investigation, and go to bed.


	10. "One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small/ And the ones that Mother gives you, don't do anything at all/ Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall...." ~ Jefferson Airplane  'White Rabbit'

I wake up the next morning absolutely certain that I have to get a look at that book that Steen left for me at Sara's flat. I don't want to wait until tomorrow, it can't wait. 

Over breakfast I listen to Steen's message again, and it still makes no sense at all. He seems to think that I know what "the torch" is, but I have no idea. The fool Aussie hasn't phoned or texted back to me, so I ring him again to see if anything is changed--nope, still goes straight to his full voice mailbox, so his phone is turned off, or busy. 

I text Sara that I'm going over to the flat to pick up the book and see Pablo, but I get impatient waiting for a reply and phone her. She tells me that the package my friend left is in my room at her flat, and that Saturday will be fine for me to come round for tea if I have to work on Sunday. After yesterday afternoon with Christine and Amy, it's a relief to be able to casually refer to "work," knowing that Sara knows exactly what I mean, and that there will be no awkward questions. I love my sister. 

I'm all fired up now to look at that book; I'm sure that Steen was being evasive when he said it was just something he thought I might enjoy reading. It's got to have more significance than that--besides, I don't have anything else to go on, and not knowing is driving me mad. I go to shower and get dressed quickly. 

I take a good look the the bruise on my shoulder and see that the thing is slightly fading, but it still looks like hell. I choose out a high-necked shirt, sleeveless and cut-away at the point of the shoulder. It's also very snug-fitting, and a flattering shade of turquoise--like Steen told me when we went shopping, I don't have to dress like a granny to keep things covered up. There's no need to cover my lower half very much, so I don't; miniskirts are a fashion I wear very well.

The chilly rain from last night has given way to warm, humid breezes under grey skies. It feels almost tropical, and I'm sweating a little by the time I get to the Tube station. Despite that, I decide that I'm going to get off the train a few miles from Sara's to do a little exercise walking; it'll cut down on the time I have to spend on the treadmill later today. I take off at a very quick pace.

That's when I notice the two men following me. They are not exactly dogging my steps, just keeping up with me a few yards back, but since we are the only ones going so fast they are easy to spot. Just to check that I'm not merely being paranoid, I duck into a shop for a while and pretend to be very interested in the office supplies on the shelves. When I emerge from the shop and continue on my way, the same men are once more behind me. 

So, now what? Why am I being followed? I stop at a newsstand to look at the headlines, and think for a moment. The two men, both very casually dressed in blue jeans and t-shirts, are standing in front of a greengrocer's maybe 30 feet away, examining the melons. I consider. One of them looks a little familiar, and might be one of the suits that Holmes had sent after me that night after the wedding. 

There's only one way to make sure. I walk quickly up to the men, who turn and stare at me like I've grown a second head. Up close, I'm absolutely sure that I've seen one before; he was the suit who hauled me out of the car by my arm. 

I move in close and fix them with a friendly smile. _"Hello, gentlemen. I hope I'm not overtaxing you with this pace, am I?"_

To their credit, they are professionals, and they hardly miss a beat. _"Sorry, miss, but we don't know what you're talking about. Are you feeling well?"_ The arm-hauler is nervous; he's shifted his body away from me and his blink rate has increased. I bet he suspects that I recognize him.

 _"I'm very well, thank you. But I am worried about you,"_ I look from one to the other. _"I'm sure that you can track me by my phone, so I'm not worried about losing you, but it's a warm day and I don't want to be responsible for any heat stroke. Although,"_ and here I let the bad girl come through, and I give them both a long, slow, appreciative look up and down. _"Although, you both look quite fit. Very fit, in fact. I'll bet you can go the distance, and then some."_ I purr this with my best suggestive smile, hoping that the distraction will throw them off their game.

Arm-hauler clears his throat. _"You needn't worry about us, Miss."_

 _"Talbot. Miss Talbot. I don't know if Mr. Holmes told you my name..."_ and they both blink at that, forgetting that they should be mystified. Holmes's men, then. No need to waste any more time with these two. _"Enjoy your day, gentlemen."_ And I wiggle off on my way.

So he's keeping me under surveillance, and maybe has been all along, I don't know. So, why is that necessary? I don't think he would expend the manpower to have me followed without good reason. It could be because I'm in danger; it could be because I'm dangerous....

However, I have to admit that if I had a secret service at my disposal, I'd have him followed. I'm just that way, and that would be reason enough. I have to consider that it might be for him as well. There's no need to manufacture danger and intrigue where there might not be any. 

Walking along, I consider the situation. A contingency plan jells in my mind, and I make a mental note to talk to Sara about it later.

Soon enough I'm letting myself into Sara's flat, walking in with a happy smile. Knightsbridge is posh and beautiful, but my sister's place feels like home, right down to the shabby, familiar furniture and family photos on the walls. I wrinkle my nose at the faint odor of catbox, though; Sara isn't so good about those little maintenance things. 

On the heels of the odor, Pablo comes sauntering into the room. The big grey tabby winds around my ankles just enough to get my attention, then, when I greet him and bend down to rub his head, he saunters off flipping his tail. Yep, he's cross with me. I'll ignore him good and proper until he decides to allow me to apologize.

My room is pretty much the same as I left it. There is a small stack of correspondence atop the chest of drawers, and beside that, a smallish brown paper package. It's addressed to me, as if Steen intended to post it but changed his mind. I eagerly rip it open to find a well-thumbed paperback novel, with a worn red-orange cover depicting a partly-clothed couple in a lurid embrace. The title is...in cyrillic. A Russian romance novel? Does Steen even read Russian? I can puzzle it out with a dictionary, as Holmes so dismissively put it. I love poetry and I hate reading poetry in translation, so I've learned a few languages in a haphazard way.

I feel rather disappointed as I ruffle through the dog-eared little book. As a clue, this is pretty pathetic. There's a name, written in blue ink on the flyleaf page at the top, like people do when they lend out their books. It's also in cyrillic; I can't make out the last name, but the first name is Lyuba.

Lyuba was quite a slow reader, and couldn't seem to find a bookmark, because lots of the pages are dog-eared at the top or the bottom, or both. There's no writing in it that I can see aside from the name scrawled in the front. As I ruffle through the pages again, a slip of paper falls out. 

I scoop the slip up from the floor, and look at it closely. It's a tattered scrap, torn from a larger sheet of blank paper. "Evan McCutcheon" is printed in bold black letters, and "Verge, 3rd floor, Fridays" is printed just below it. Now _there_ is a clue! I've partied at Verge in the past, it's a mega-club in Camden, multiple floors, big scene. There are better places for really excellent cutting-edge music, but for a huge, screaming night out that you won't remember all of, Verge is quite it. It's also notorious as something of a flea-market for recreational drugs. You can get anything you want there.

Evan McCutcheon doesn't sound familiar at all, but I wouldn't expect him to. I need to do some research. Well, tonight is Friday night, why not just take a little jaunt to Camden, and check out Verge's third floor? I haven't been clubbing in ages, it might even be fun. I carefully tuck the scrap of paper away in my handbag.

Scrolling my phone back through the calls I've had in the past few weeks, I find the number for Adam, one of my recent ex's friends. He and I always flirted like mad when I was with my ex, Erik, so I guess Adam thought he was next in line. He's been phoning me, I've been ignoring him. 

However, he is a party hound, hot for me, and absolutely fit. I'm certain I can talk him into going out tonight wherever I want to go, and I could certainly do worse for a date. Even better, Adam runs with a crowd that hangs out at the clubs in Camden, so he's bound to know people at Verge I can talk to about this Mr. McCutcheon.

A short phone call later, and we are on. I tell Adam to pick me up here at Sara's; I certainly am not going to give him the address of the Knightsbridge flat. I text Sara to advise her that I'm going to be around later tonight, and maybe stay over. She's used to my changeable plans, so I don't expect it will be a problem for her. I really hope Holmes doesn't call me in to work tonight, that would be a fly in the ointment for certain, although I don't reckon it's likely. He just saw me last night, and apparently has big plans for Sunday, so I would be surprised if he wanted to come round tonight or tomorrow as well. I'll keep my phone close, just in case.

I make myself a cup of tea and curl up on the ratty old sofa to look through Steen's book yet again, and think. Pablo deigns to come and sit beside me, and allows me to stroke the top of his head, although he pointedly declines to sit in my lap.

I peer at the book from all angles, and carefully leaf through the tattered pages. I really can't see any writing, or any code markings, or anything unusual about it at all, except for the quantity of pages with turned-down corners. I sigh, and pet Pablo some more, until he finally starts to purr. If this book is a clue, I'm just not clever enough to figure it out--but I can't imagine that Steen was seriously giving it to me for reading material! My Russian-English dictionary is on my ereader, and I didn't bring that along, so I guess I'll just wander back to Knightsbridge and spend the afternoon translating, then come back here by 10 o'clock for Adam to pick me up.

I pack a few more odds and ends from my closet at Sara's, say goodbye for now to Pablo, and head back to the other flat. Since I'm going out dancing tonight, I feel justified in skipping the rest of my workout for the day, and just concentrating on the bloody book. 

First, the title. I call up my translation dictionary on my reader and have at it: "F-a-k-e-l." It means...."the torch." Well, shit.

I just sit there for a moment and stare at it. "The Torch." That's the name of the book. No wonder Steen thought I knew what The Torch meant in his message; he thought I already had the book, and he knows I can read Russian. This thing is a clue and a half, if only I were clever enough to understand!

I listen to Steen's message again for the umpteenth time. I'm supposed to get The Torch to the pigman? And that's the only way to stop this thing? Okay, so the implication is that something bad is going to happen if this book doesn't get into the hands of someone known as the pigman. But it's London, and unfortunately there's a shortage of blokes raising pigs around here, so I have less than no idea of who he means. Maybe I can find out tonight at Verge; maybe this Evan McCutcheon knows.

The rest of the day seems to evaporate as I translate bits of the book, and do some internet stalking of all the Evan McCutcheons in the City. Both endeavors turn up a big, fat zero. The Torch is a raunchy romance novel, really badly written, and there are fifteen Evan or E. McCutcheons around here, none of whom seem to be in trouble with the law beyond parking tickets and a couple of ASBO's. No obvious drug lords, but then, I don't think drug lords are supposed to be obvious. 

I have a late tea, and a walk around the park to clear my head, then it's time to get ready to go out. It's an ordeal figuring out an outfit that will keep the Mark of Mycroft on my shoulder securely hidden, and still meet my own criteria for clubbing gear. It has to be sexy, of course, but comfortable to move in, and not look just like everybody else's outfit. It has to be a little edgy. 

I spend an hour trying on every bloody thing I have with me, and the bedroom ends up looking like the mahogany wardrobe exploded or something, clothes and shoes everywhere. I settle on yet another high-neck outfit that Steen helped me pick out, a cute little dress in plaid lycra...but it's so _plain_...ah. I know!

I open my toy-chest, and pull out the black gym bag. Harnesses are _in_ right now, I saw a few on the runway last spring. Why didn't I think of this before? The whole inner-wear as outer-wear taboo-busting thing, sort of like the lingerie look way back in the 90's...

Gazing in the wardrobe mirror, I decide that I look fantastic. The brown leather and brass rings just set the outfit right on the edge, and with high brown boots, my hair teased into a 60's bouffant--yeah. Too bad poor Adam isn't getting any of this tonight, but I do have a contract to honor.

I splurge on a cab to take me to Sara's, and she's home when I get there, already in her jammies and settled in for the night to watch telly. That's how it's always been, Sara the homebody and Angelica the party animal--although to be fair, I think that she and her boyfriend are going out tomorrow night for some big "do" or another.

Sara susses me out with a wry look. _"That's an...interesting outfit."_

I twirl around for her inspection. _"Don't I look great? I think this might be my new look for a while."_

_"Whatever bumps your bikkies, I suppose, but I honestly think you look a little...well, a little inappropriate. Isn't that an S and M harness or something?"_

_"Yep. And the term isn't 'inappropriate' it's 'edgy.' Like, on the edge of being inappropriate."_

Sara shakes her head and gets off the sofa. _"Living on the edge, and sliding downhill, child. Want a cuppa while you wait for your ride?"_

_"Love one."_

Over mugs of tea, Sara and I catch up on each other's life a little--funny how you can have a phone chat nearly every day, but there are still things to talk over when you meet. With one eye on the clock, though, I bring the talk around to the favor I mean to ask of her. 

_"Tomorrow, and I mean tomorrow, because I don't know when I'll need this, but will you go to the phone shop tomorrow and get a phone for me, in your name only? I've got the cash for it right here..."_ I lay down the money on the table between us, and tell her which model and contract I want.

 _"I can do that, but why do you want me to?"_ Sara looks suspiciously at me. _"What aren't you telling me?"_

I sigh. I've left out of our conversations any mention about the trouble that Steen might be in, and my growing fears for him, not to mention the fact that Holmes isn't going to want me to get involved in anything regarding Steen. I decide to keep her out of the loop a while longer.

_"I told you how Holmes can track my phone, right?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Well, last night I think he was able to have it jammed or something as well. I'm pretty sure he did, because I tried to call out and there was no signal, for quite a while. So it's worth it to me to have a backup that isn't linked to me, that he won't be able to jam or track. See?"_

Sara leans back in her chair and looks at me hard for a moment. _"Do you have any idea how nervous it makes me that you are involved with a guy that can and would do something like that? Stuff like that isn't normal, you know? People don't do things like that."_

_"The only reason they don't is because they can't, and you know it. Hell, if I could do it, I would. And by the way, I'm not 'involved' with him, I work for him."_

Sara shakes her head, but agrees that tomorrow morning she'll go get me the phone.

A few moments later, Adam knocks me up. He's a good-looking bloke whose main fault is that he tries too hard, but he's not bad company once he calms down. He says all the right things about how great I look, how much he's missed hanging out with me, and so forth, and we take off in his ancient little Miata. He gets points for having his own car, loses points for it smoking like a chimney-pot. I don't look to see if we are followed, because I just assume we will be. If Holmes had me followed in broad daylight just bopping around the City, I imagine he would certainly do so when I go out clubbing.

Verge is housed in a huge Victorian factory, converted to three separate dance floors, one on each level, each with a different DJ and ambience. It's been around for over a decade and is still quite popular, although given how fickle the London club crowd is, that could change at any minute. I appreciate that Adam thought to get tickets ahead of time so we don't have to stand outside in the queue. We go through the usual pat-down at the entrance, and then we are out on the edge of the main floor. The place is dim and huge, and the music is so loud at first it's almost painful, lights strobing in time to the bass beat that thumps through my chest. Takes a while to get used to it, and some alcohol wouldn't hurt, either. The floor isn't packed yet, since it's still before midnight, but there are plenty of people grinding around on the dance floor, or hovering at the tables beside the main bar. 

I send Adam to the crowded bar to get drinks right away, because I really need some anesthetic for my ears. While I'm waiting for him, I get approached no less than four times by blokes who want to know if I'd like some party-fuel. One is sharking me, but the rest are clearly dealers, since they insist they have on hand "Anything you want, special prices for beautiful girls!" I decline politely, except for the one who doesn't seem to understand what "No, thanks" means. He gets told to shove off.

It's not like I haven't tried, and enjoyed, quite a few different trips--nicknames aside, I'm no angel. But, number one, that's not what I'm here for tonight, and number two, I've learned the hard way that recreational pharmaceuticals are really hard on my body, most of the time much worse than a little alcohol. I'll feel great for the night, but the comedowns are rarely good and the next day might be the hangover from hell. Besides, taking a good look at the people who are regular, heavy users of club drugs has made me very cautious when it comes to my own habits. I don't intend to be a sorry-arsed burnout by the time I'm thirty.

When my vodka-and-bullseye aural anesthesia arrives, I down it as quick as I can--it's not like I drink that stuff to savor it. I've asked Adam to look out for his mates, the Camden crowd, and he tells me--shouting in my ear over the music--that he's spotted a few of them over in a corner on some sofas. I ask him to take me over there and do some introductions.

The little group, a woman and three men, are huddled around a tiny table set beside one of the sofas in a dimly-lit conversation pit. They are almost openly doing lines of coke, and I really wonder about the law enforcement around here, or lack of it. It's only been a little more than a year since I was here last, and it's no longer a drug flea-market, it's a free-for-all. If the punters are this open about using, and dealers are so open about sales that they are clearly in competition with each other, then there must currently be zero enforcement in this place. The security people are certainly in on selling the stuff, and possibly the management.

It's not like I really care, but the most disturbing thing is that it also might mean that somebody in law enforcement is in on it as well. 

Adam and I settle on the sofa beside the little group, and there are introductions all around. One of the men, an older bloke named Harry, generously cuts some coke for Adam and I, but I decline mine, claiming that it gives me horrible headaches. Adam happily snorts up both lines, thus conclusively proving that I have been wise to avoid him. 

I don't waste too much time in chatting up this lot; they are already too out of it to notice whether or not I am observing any social niceties. I pretty much cut right to it, and ask if anyone knows an Evan McCutcheon who is likely to be found on the third floor here on Fridays.

Harry gives me a big smile. _"Ooooh, no wonder you weren't into the powder, you like to play with the other stuff! I bet you're a lot of fun when the party gets going, eh?"_ He elbows Adam in the ribs, and they leer at each other. Ick. But I play along, and let Harry think what he likes, so long as he'll answer my questions.

It turns out that McCutcheon isn't exactly a drug lord, but he's probably close, personal friends with a few of them. He's a distributor, a dealer to the dealers for the most part, although he'll deal directly with high-end customers who are looking for something out-of-the-ordinary.

 _"Some of the shit he sells is so new, it's not even illegal yet!"_ enthuses Harry. _"His prices are sky-high, too, although a tidy bird like you could probably arrange a discount,"_ and here comes the creepy leer again; I am really getting tired of this wanker. I get a few more bits out of Harry, like where McCutcheon usually lurks upstairs and how to recognize him, and then I've had enough. I grab Adam's hand and pull him up beside me. 

_"C'mon, I want to dance."_

Grinning like an idiot over his shoulder, Adam makes a show of sliding his hands around me and grabbing onto my arse as we walk away from his mates. Show-off. Even if I weren't under a contract, I wouldn't be tempted to have it off with him. I really hate being treated like a bloody trophy.

He's a good dancer, though, and I genuinely enjoy grinding away with him on the dance floor. The place is starting to get crowded, and noisier. I want to wait until it really gets cranking before I go to see McCutcheon, less chance of being noticed. I wonder if Holmes's men are here, watching me? I've been scanning the crowd, but haven't spotted them yet. 

Finally the noise and activity level rises to the point where I think it's safe to go check out McCutcheon. I drag Adam up to the third floor, where the lights are a different colour, and flashing to a different beat, and there is a smoke machine making everything look spooky; otherwise, it's pretty much the same scene we just left. I glance over at a conversation pit in a quieter corner, lit by blue can-lights, and there is McCutcheon holding court just as described. 

He doesn't look like an underworld kingpin. He looks like a thirty-something ex-skinhead run to fat, really. Short, dumpy, clean-shaven head and face, dressed in a plain black t-shirt and black jeans with thick-soled doc martins on his feet--they make you a little taller--he sits alone on a sofa with his hands folded on his ample belly, surrounded by a couple of club security staff that probably are also his personal security. A well-dressed punter is sitting on an ottoman placed directly in front of McCutcheon, and the two are quietly talking.

Adam and I dance for a while, and I watch McCutcheon's supplicants come and go. If money and parcels are changing hands, they are so sly about it that you don't see it happen. On the other hand, McCutcheon might just be brokering deals between other parties, and not directly involved himself.

In any case, it's time to get to this. I'm pretty nervous about approaching McCutcheon; I'm nervous about the whole thing, really. I know I'm out of my depth here, but I want to know what's going on with Steen, and if I can help him somehow, I will. I send Adam to the overflowing bar area for more drinks, knowing that will give me at least twenty minutes, and I stroll over to the blue-lit sofa to say hi.

McCutcheon watches impassively with his flat, pale eyes as his security man intercepts me.

 _"What is your business over here, miss?"_ The acoustics of this corner are well-chosen; I don't have to strain to hear him.

 _"I'm here to speak with Mr. McCutcheon. I'm sorry, did I need an appointment?"_ I give my best charming smile to the man on the sofa, ignoring the security goon.

McCutcheon nods, and the security steps away from me. I walk over to the sofa and point to a spot on the cushion beside him. _"Mind if I sit down?"_

McCutcheon looks up at me, unblinking, and shrugs, so I fold up my legs and sit down, close but not quite touching him. I give him a small smile, and let him see that I'm nervous by tucking my hair behind my ears and licking my lips. I don't think there's any percentage in playing it cool here; in fact, letting him know he has the upper hand might be helpful. He'll feel more secure.

He's still staring at me. _"Mr. McCutcheon, my name is Angel."_ Start off with the basics, proceed from there. _"I heard about you from, well, lots of people, but also my friend Steen Dijkstra."_ McCutcheon's eyes flicker at the name, so he knows of Steen, at least. _"I'm an escort, I work for the Agency."_ Now, in the right circles, that would be name-dropping. Let's see if Evan McCutcheon moves in those circles.

He raises an eyebrow. _"Do you, then? Well, that's interesting."_ He doesn't look interested. Everything about the man is flat, damped down, monochrome and cold. His voice is very soft, and his accent very odd; he sounds like an Yank faking a Scottish accent, or a Scots who lived too long in America. _"So you're an Agency girl. What's your manager's name?"_

I guess he does move in those circles. _"You know I can't tell you."_

 _"And why is that?"_ He's asking for the password.

 _"They don't ever tell us, Mr. McCutcheon,"_ I reply, and he visibly relaxes, finally blinking those disturbing pale blue eyes. 

He turns his face toward me more fully, and his voice warms up by a fraction of a degree. _"You can call me Evan, if you like. Now, what can I do for you, pretty Angel?"_ Yep, drug dealers and whores, they go together like bread and butter. Suddenly I'm a colleague. 

I draw him into talking with me by outlining a fake business plan to make extra money by selling to my clientele. He listens to my long-winded recitation, nodding slightly, and tells me that I might do quite well with that, quite well indeed. He quickly starts to get down to brass tacks about costs and deliveries, but I don't want him to think that we are coming to an agreement tonight, so I backpedal furiously.

_"I'm sorry, but I'm not ready to commit to this...I was just wondering if you thought it was a good idea or not...."_

He looks slightly disappointed. _"Well, if you're not ready, then I guess that's that for tonight. But, when you are,"_ he looks around at the strobing lights and forms writhing in the glowing blue smoke and smiles benignly, _"I'll be right here. On Fridays, anyway."_ He lifts one side of his bum, so he can reach into one of his pockets and pull out a little vial. Opening it, he shakes out a capsule and hands it to me. _"Here, Angel, this one's on the house, a show of good faith. Bottoms up."_

He smiles at me, but the cold eyes in his pudgy face stay hard. He's not showing his good faith, he's wanting me to prove mine. I take the capsule in my palm and look at it. _"Does it have a name?"_ I ask.

 _"Mandy,"_ he says, still smiling with his mouth. _"Best shit you'll ever roll on. Absolutely fucking pure."_

I smile brightly, but inwardly sigh. I've used MDMA before, and it's not my favorite. On the other hand, there are plenty of trips that are worse than rolling on ecstasy, and I want McCutcheon to trust me.

I bring my palm to my mouth, like I'm going to take the capsule, then stop. _"Hey, do you happen to know who the pigman is, Evan? Steen has mentioned him, and I'm really curious. Who keeps pigs in London? Who is the pigman?"_

McCutcheon's eyes flicker, but he keeps his smile steady and shrugs. _"No idea, my dear."_ He's lying.

I put the cap on my tongue and show it to him before swallowing it. _"Yummy to my tummy, dear Evan."_ I give him a big smile and lean in. _"Are you really sure you don't know who this pigman is? Steen is being Mr. Mysterious about it, and I'm dying of curiosity. You've just GOT to tell me, in good faith?"_ His turn, now.

McCutcheon leans toward me, and puts his mouth right against my ear; it takes an effort of will to not pull away from him in disgust. He whispers, in Russian _"On yavlyayetsya pakhan,"_ then slouches back against the cushions, a sly smile on his face. 

I remember to look confused and say, _"What? What did you say?"_ and McCutcheon just grins wider and waves bye-bye to me. I make like I'm getting a giggle-fit, and wave bye-bye back, blow the fat bastard a kiss, then find my feet and go to locate Adam. 

If I hadn't just spent the day translating Russian, I wouldn't have known that McCutcheon essentially told me that the Pigman is a leader in the Russian mafia, a _pakhan_.

I stow that information away securely in my head, because I know from experience that I've got about thirty minutes of reasonable sobriety before I start to roll, then I'm going to be completely useless for the rest of the night. I also am one of those unfortunates that get near-total amnesia from high doses of MDMA, so I need to get myself back to Sara's before it kicks in and I find myself waking up in the morning wondering where I am and what happened, again. Where the hell is Adam?!

As I push through the crowd, I can feel my whole body start to tingle slightly, and the music pulling me in.... I'm still looking for Adam, but the beat feels so good, the dancing peoples are having so much fun, I can feel the smile spreading across my face as I jump in time to the music, merging into the press of bodies around me, smells of sweat and perfume and spilled alcohol mingling....

A man takes my wrist and tries to pull me off the dance floor. I look at him closely and shout, _"Arm-hauler! There you are! I was looking for you guys earlier, what took you so long? Do you want to dance?"_ I grab onto him and pull him back into the mosh, wrapping my arms around his neck. The bloke frantically tries to unwrap me, but I am all over him. He finally flips me around into a rear armlock, my right hand pulled up hard behind me, and I gleefully start grinding my arse against the front of his jeans. Ooooh, he feels nice! He pushes me out in front of him, holding onto one of the straps of my harness to keep me from twisting around again, and the other agent gives him a hand when we reach the edge of the dance floor. They start to march me out between them.

 _"Hey, hey, hey, lovey, no need to get rough!"_ I tell them. _"I'm happy to go with you. Will you take me to Sara's? I need to crash there for a while. She'll look after me."_

Arm-hauler shakes his head as they navigate me down the stairs toward an exit. _"No, you've been sent for."_

 _"Ah, I've been *sent for*!"_ I repeat in a portentious voice. Did Holmes decide to visit tonight after all? I don't think my phone has rung; I have it tucked into the top of one boot, and I think I would've felt the vibration if he had called or texted me. I'll have to check.

The outdoors air clears my head a little, and I convince Holmes's men that they don't have to march me around. Following them to the parking garage, I pull out my phone from my boot and see that an unidentified caller did indeed ring just over an hour ago. Well, we agreed on two-hour notice, so there you are, I have no reason to even be annoyed. 

I look at the pretty city lights as we drive along, and I idly wonder how long it will take Adam to give up looking for me. He's going to be pissed that I ditched him, but I really don't care. He's an annoying little wanker. I'm really thirsty, I wish he had gotten back with my drink sooner.

The car pulls up at the blue door on Ennismore Mews, and I carefully get out. I'm not sober by any stretch, but can still negotiate simple tasks if I concentrate. I'm aware that the agents are watching me closely as I pull out the key and fit it into the lock; I'm very proud that I got it in on the first go, but then I can't remember which way it turns, and I have to try a few times before I can get it to work.

I sigh with relief when I close the door behind me. It's not as good as being at Sara's, but it's close enough. Then I notice the tall man in shirtsleeves leaning against the bannister, his arms crossed and a frown on his face. For a minute, I am sixteen again, and it's my daddy standing there with a mixture of anger, disappointment and relief on his face. I start to stammer, I'm sorry Daddy...then I realize that it's Holmes, and the last thing I should do is call him Daddy. Very, very bad idea, that. 

_"Ummmm...Hi,"_ I say. I don't know what else to say, so I just look at him. His forehead wrinkles up with consternation. 

_"Angel, WHAT are you doing?"_

_"I, ah, I went out. To a club. With a friend."_ God, it really does feel like being a naughty teenager again. 

_"Weren't you going to stay in for a few days? Except to visit your sister?"_

_"I never promised that. It was just an intention. Things changed....I had to see someone, at the club, talk to him, it was important..."_ I trail off, not wanting to tell Holmes what I was after. _"Anyway, here I am, like we agreed. Your men came and got me."_

 _"Yes."_ He steps forward with a sigh, and thumbs up one of my eyelids, peering at my eye. _"What did you take?"_

_"Some mandy. Pure MDMA."_

He chuffs in disgust and annoyance, and shakes his head. _"Why?"_

I'm not going to tell him about proving myself to Evan McCutcheon, no way. So I shrug. _"Because. Reasons, I guess. Why do you drink?"_ The mandy is making me reckless; I can feel myself starting to roll in earnest.

He lifts his chin and his face goes stone cold. _"You have no right to question that,"_ he says flatly.

 _"Same here,"_ I point out. We glare at each other, an eye-to-eye standoff, until something suddenly shifts in me, and tears spring to my eyes. 

_"It's not you, you know,"_ I tell him earnestly. 

_"What?"_

_"It's not you, not because of you. No matter how good you are, people are still going to screw up. It's not your fault. You can't catch all the balls, some of them are going to hit the ground. No matter how good you are, it's going to happen sometimes."_

_"You are high,"_ he says accusingly.

_"Not quite yet, but I'm getting there. Just remember, nobody is or can be perfect, not even you."_

_"No-one is an angel?"_ he asks archly.

 _"Oh, there are angels, all right, but they aren't sweet and fluffy. They aren't nice. Angels are God's hit-men."_ I give him a crooked smile. _"We're each other's angel, you see."_ I can tell he doesn't see, but that's okay. I can see for us both.

I go past him to start up the stairs. _"You should come up,"_ I tell him. I have to take the steps carefully, my balance is going.

 _"Why? You're high, and you smell like...people,"_ he makes a face.

I lean over the bannister. _"I can shower. You should come up, because I'm tremendously randy at the moment, although it's a horrible shame that I won't remember anything in the morning at all. That's the trouble with me and methylenedioxy-n-methylamphetimine...."_ I giggle, because I can still say the name, even though I can't hardly remember my own right now.

 _"You're one of the ones who get the amnesiac effect? You won't remember what happens tonight at all?"_ He looks up at me speculatively. 

_"Nope. Not a thing. It sucks, that's why I never use it."_

_"Why did you, tonight?"_

I bite my lip and shake my head. _"For reasons. You should come up."_ I continue up the stairs, stripping off my clothing as I go. By the time I reach the bathroom, I am naked. I remember to close the door, to keep out the draught, but when it comes to showering I find myself staring at a handful of shampoo and not being sure what I should do with it. The last thing I remember is hearing the bathroom door open....


	11. "Paradise is attained by touch." ~ Helen Keller

...and then I open my eyes, and it's painfully bright. I fling a hand over my face with a moan and roll away, pulling the pillow over my head to block it out. Where did the shower and shampoo go? I'm in a bed, a comfortable one. I peer out from under the pillow, blinking. I'm alone in a comfortable bed. Right. 

As my eyes adjust to being open, I realize that it's not all that bright. Somebody has left the blinds open, though, and the green light filtering through the trees outside leaves no doubt that it's well past sunrise. 

I take a deep breath that turns into a full-body yawn that goes on and on. I'm _sore_ , my muscles are sore and feel a little weak, like they've been worked hard at the gym...I reach up and rub my upper arms and shoulders. Ouch. Legs, too, are sore, and some other places....

I flop my arms back down and take stock, casting my mind around like you do when you are trying to remember a dream, only I'm trying to remember what happened _before_ the dream. 

Music. Strobing lights. Dancing. I went to a club. The pigman is a _pakhan_ , Steen is mixed up somehow with the Russian mafia! I make like I'm going to sit up quickly, but my muscles aren't listening. Oof! It's the mandy; most people have some muscle fatigue and weakness after they roll, freaks like me also get to enjoy memory impairment and sensory disturbances as well. They call it the afterglow, but I don't feel too glowing. My mouth is so parched, it feels like the bottom of a birdcage--all dry gravel and bird-poo.

I flop out of bed, hanging onto the bedpost for stability, and wait for the room to stop moving. I don't feel nauseated, thank whatever god that watches over fools with drugs, but I very certainly have a touch of vertigo. When I can stand, I stagger into the bathroom and turn on the tap. I'm so dry I don't even have to pee yet, so at least some of my problem is due to being dehydrated. 

I cup cold water into my hands and drink until my stomach tells me to stop, then I brush my teeth. Looking in the mirror above the sink, I'm amazed to see that the face looking back at me is not some death-ravaged zombie; I look just fine. Not even tired, just a bit puffy around the eyes. I'm glad Mycroft washed off my makeup for me, I hate waking up in the morning with eyeliner and mascara smears all over the place.

Wait a minute. I turn and look at the huge claw-foot tub, with the curtain still drawn around it from when I showered last night...because Mycroft complained that I smelled like people...but washing became complicated, so he had to help. Good thing it's a big tub.

I shake my head and rub the back of my neck. Memory is such a tricky thing, so easily disturbed and warped. The first time I rolled on ecstasy, before I knew that it was a blackout drug for me, I had a persistent memory afterwards of shagging a deer, a big-antlered buck. I just knew that this had happened, I _knew_ it. I was freaked out, but my friends all told me it was just a hallucination and laughed it off, until I told it to one of the boys who had been with me that night. He pointed out that I had spent most of the night having it off on a billiards table in a games room--with stuffed deer head trophies on every wall! So much for memory.

Looking at the tub, I know that Mycroft got in there with me, and washed us both; I remember viscerally how his soap-slick body felt against mine...but I really doubt that we had sex in there how I think I remember, because he couldn't have used a condom and that's just not something Mr. Paranoia would do. Is it?

I hate this. This is why I don't do mandy anymore, why I swore to myself that I wouldn't do it anymore. You can start to go a little mad, second-guessing yourself as you try to piece things together from clues and dream-like fragments. The key is to apply rational thinking, and dismiss the impossible. 

Like, I doubt that I actually gave Mycroft's umbrella a blow-job; it just doesn't seem physically possible. I feel like I have a real memory of it...but it has to be either a hallucination, or a deer-shagging sort of scenario...even though it did make the umbrella so _very_ happy....

My kidneys have started to work again, so I take care of that, then I realize that I'm hungry, ravenously hungry. What the hell time is it, anyway? There was something I was going to be doing today, I hope I didn't miss it. I throw on my dressing gown and go down to the kitchen in search of sustenance. 

Waiting for the kettle to boil, I wander around the quiet flat munching on an untoasted, cold bagel. My eye falls on the Russian romance novel and my e-reader, stacked on the side-table where I left them last night. Bloody hell, Steen. The _bratva_ , the Russian mafia. What the hell were you thinking? And I've somehow got to get that stupid book to the local _pakhan_...it's not like I can just google the keyword string "pigman russian mafia boss" and find him that way...although I might could actually try that, who knows.....but first, I need to check the calendar on my phone. There is something still niggling at the back of my brain telling me that I have an appointment today.

The kettle boils, and I scurry to make my tea. Oh, I desperately need my tea this morning. Then, mug in hand, I search around for my phone. I had tucked it into the top of my boot before I left here last night, since I don't like to carry a bag when I'm out clubbing and my dress didn't have pockets. My boots had to have been taken off somewhere between the front door and the bathroom, so I go upstairs to look.

I have a few moments of panic when I can't find the phone anywhere. It's not rational, everything on it is totally replaceable except for a few photos that I would miss, but damn it, it's my _phone_ , and I can't find it.

And then I hear it ringing, faintly, and have to wonder if I'm really losing my mind. Is that an auditory hallucination, brought on by my panic at losing my phone, or is that my actual phone's actual ringtone? It sounds like it's coming from downstairs.

I hurry down so I can listen for it before it stops ringing, and the sound gets louder. I'm quite relieved that it's not a hallucination after all. I follow the sound to my handbag, occupying it's usual counter-space, and pull my phone out to see that Unidentified is ringing me. I answer it, of course.

_"Hey,"_ I say, and take a quick gulp of tea. 

_"Angel. How are you feeling this morning?"_ Mycroft sounds concerned, but not at all solicitous. He might as well be asking how the cooker is getting on.

_"Quite well, actually. A little rough at the start, but getting better."_

_"Are you taking fluids?"_

I take another sip of tea. _"Yes, and that's probably where the getting better comes from."_

_"Any vertigo or blurred vision? Headache?"_

_"No, no, and no, Dr. Holmes."_ Now he's being silly. _"Am I fit for duty?"_

_"I believe so, at the moment anyway. You may expect to see me tomorrow at twelve o'clock. And, Angel?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"If you should start to feel ill, don't go to the local clinic. You are to call 999, I have emergency services keyed to take you to a more suitable place."_

Oh, god, he's gone beyond silly. _"That's waayyyy overkill, Mycroft. I'm fine, really. Serious side effects are very rare, and I would already be ill if I were to have any at all."_

_"Yes, of course,"_ he says, as in, Yes, you are wrong, but I'm not going to waste breath arguing with you. _"Well, tomorrow, then."_ After he hangs up, I finish the rest of my tea and put the kettle on again. This is definitely a two-cuppa morning. Although, I don't feel as rotten as I would've expected from that big of a hit; the physical issues are rapidly fading, and there's no emotional letdown at all. McCutcheon was telling the truth, that was some pure shit.

In fact, I feel super, except for stressing about the missing chunks of memory. I should just let that go...there's no way I'm going to know just exactly what happened here last night, and I should just trust how I feel about it. And how I feel is...warm. And relaxed. Okay, so if bad things had happened, I wouldn't feel all warm and fuzzy, would I? My subconscious would be making me feel all icky about it...

I take my tea over to the chair where I have my laptop set up, and check in online. Nothing exciting in my email inbox, just a lot of spam. I check in on the forum, and everybody seems to be doing fine; in fact, the level of terror is fading fast as my fellow escorts begin forgetting that a few weeks ago we all thought our lives were in danger. Now that there haven't been any more murders, everyone is back to fussing about the latest antibiotic-resistant STD, and whether or not the Agency's rate schedule needs to be updated.

I post a query asking if anybody has heard from Steen lately, and flag it so that it will pop to the top of all the message queues. That's all I can do at the moment. It's too soon to file a missing person's on him, the police won't even want to hear about it until tomorrow night, and probably won't action on it until early in the week. He's just a rent-boy, we're of the expendable class, don'cha know....

I sigh, and try googling for information about the _bratva_ in London, especially its leaders. Looking at the photos of known Russian mob members, it occurs to me that every single one of them has a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

And suddenly I'm dying for a smoke, such is the power of suggestion. I'll have to go outside to do it, so I run upstairs to throw on some clothes fast--except that I can't find anything! The bloody wardrobe has been completely re-organized! I _always_ hang up my clothing by outfits, each with it's own section. 

Now it's all arranged by colour, in rainbow order, and I can't find a bloody thing. It has to be Mycroft, and this is simply too much. I won't have him getting into my stuff and re-arranging things to suit himself. No way, no how. If I had a number for him, I would call him right now and tear him a new arsehole, but I can't even send him a bitchy text--I have no way to contact him at all. It's all one way, isn't it? His way....

Now I really want a smoke, so I haul out whatever, some shorts and a t-shirt, and throw them on. I'm not even going to do my hair or put on a bra. If people want to think I'm a grotty slag, I don't care, I really don't.

As I'm kneeling down rummaging around for some shoes, I have a sudden vision, though, of the room as I left it last night, before going out. It looked like the wardrobe had exploded, shoes and clothes all over the place... I know that I was in no shape to tidy things up when I came back, I barely made it into the shower before I was so blissed-out that I couldn't function. Housekeeper doesn't come until Monday, so it must have been Mycroft that tidied it up for me. 

I rock back on my heels for a moment. Well, that's quite different. He did the best he could, I suppose. I can put things back how I like them later; for now I'll just be glad he took care of it. That was thoughtful of him.

Or was it? Because that would be quite unlike...I realize that Mycroft probably didn't tidy up because he was being thoughtful; the mess would've been uncomfortable for him to look at. Yep. That fits. I have to be careful of projecting my own motivations onto him; it's a little bit like relating to a Martian. It might walk like a duck and quack like a duck, but never forget that it's a Holmes.

The sunshine is warm on my bare arms and legs when I step outside. I don't even get to the end of the cobblestone street, puffing on my cigarette, before I become aware that I'm being followed again. Well, watched from a distance, at any rate. They aren't even bothering to be sly about it anymore, the two men just follow at a respectful distance behind me, not obvious and not crowding, but definitely there. I stop, look at them to see if I know either one--which I don't--and give them a smile before continuing on my way. It's going to be a hell of a challenge to shake this security detail, if I ever have to. I really hope I never have to. I still wonder why I have to be escorted everywhere; would Mycroft tell me if I asked him point-blank? Probably not.

I sit on a low stacked-stone garden wall at the end of the street to finish the cigarette. It's another beautiful day, I wonder what I might do with it? Oh, yeah, I should check my calendar...phone's in my pocket, and I call up the calendar....

Sara. I'm supposed to visit with Sara today! And I am supposed to be there...half an hour ago. Oh, bloody hell. I call her, and I don't know if I should be relieved or insulted when she says that she figured I would be late, so it's no problem, just get there when I can.

Sighing, I hang up and stub out my cig on the wall, carrying the butt back with me to the flat. Just once, I would like to not feel like the cack-handed little sister who can't do anything right. I'll just get dressed and over there as quick as I can.

###

Sara's in the middle of making tea when I finally get there, and puts me to work peeling potatoes. _"So, how was your outing with Adam last night?"_ is the first thing out of her mouth past 'Hello'. I'd made it clear to her that it was only a date in his mind, not mine. _"Did you have fun at the club?"_

Her good cheer seems a little forced; maybe she's more annoyed than she let on that I'm so late. I give her the condensed and sanitized version of last night, leaving out the encounter with McCutcheon and the MDMA, and ending with, _"But then Mycroft decided that he wanted me to work last night, so I had to cut things short--"_

_"Who's Mycroft?"_ Sara stops in mid-chop at the cutting board. _"I thought you were on a contract right now."_

_"I am. With Mycroft Holmes, same guy, nothing changed."_

_"Oh."_ She starts chopping the veg again. _"Since when have you been on a first-name basis with him?"_

_"Well, I guess since last night. I guess. That's really weird."_ I have one of those moments of cognitive dissonance, where what you think you know is suddenly turned upside-down. Why _do_ I think of him as Mycroft now? I think I've been calling him that all day, but I can't be sure.

Sara is looking at me suspiciously. _"What's really weird?"_

I don't want to tell her why I don't remember. _"His name. It's weird, isn't it?"_

She shrugs. _"Probably one of those surname-as-given-name things."_ She looks at me out of the corner of her eye as she tosses the veg with some olive oil. _"So things are going well, then? Sounds pretty cozy."_

I huff at her. _"Not exactly cozy. We've worked out a reasonable business relationship,"_ or...something, I add silently. I don't exactly know what.

Pablo strolls into the kitchen then, and I divert the conversation by fawning over him. Sara chucks the mixed veg, potatoes and a roasting chicken into the oven, and says, _"There we are. Now, you and I need to talk."_

_"What about?"_ Pablo is not ignoring me for a change; he is actually all over me, purring.

_"A couple of things,"_ she replies. _"I'll put the kettle back on."_

Uh-oh. With Sara, "We need to talk," combined with "I'll put the kettle on" means bad news. Sometimes _really_ bad. I sit very still and pet Pablo, who is now curled up in my lap and rumbling loudly, rubbing his whiskers against my hand.

It doesn't take long for the tea to get made, and Sara settles in across from me. I wait for it, whatever it is.

_"So,"_ she starts, then, _"Oh, hey, do you want some biscuits? I've got some really nice ones that I picked up yesterday, I think you'll like them."_ She jumps up and rummages in the cupboard, comes back to the table opening a packet, and starts to sit down. _"They remind me of the ones we used to get up North at Auntie's, the ones nobody around here seems to carry, they're not the exact brand, but I think you might like them all the same..."_ She jumps up again to go get a plate, like we don't usually just eat out of the packet anyway.

I can't take it anymore. _"For god's sake Sara, will you just sit down and spit it out, whatever it is? Please?"_

She purses her lips as she sits again and neatly arranges the biscuits on the plate. _"Okay, then, well, Richard is moving in next week."_ Sara pushes the plate toward me, and gives me a you-asked-for-it kind of look with most of her face, although her blue eyes are swimming with tears. Talk about mixed signals.

_"Why are you upset, Sairs? That's good news, isn't it, that he's moving in? You said that things were getting serious; you still like him, don't you?"_ I've only met Richard a handful of times, but he seems okay; works part-time at the animal hospital, going to school to be a veterinary surgeon, I think. Stiff and proper, very solid sort. Boring, really, but I don't criticize Sara's tastes and she doesn't criticize mine.

Sara dashes the overflow from her eyes and shrugs. _"I just feel like I'm choosing him over you, and that makes me feel awful, you know? I'm supposed to look after you...."_

That gets another huff from me. _"I'm twenty-three, I can look after myself. But, in what way are you choosing him over me? I don't get it."_ I take a biscuit from the plate to try it; they are actually pretty good. 

Sara shakes her head. _"Angelica, you're going to have to move out next week....there's not enough space....you'll have to find storage for your things, or take them to Knightsbridge...."_

What the hell? _"What do you mean, not enough space? This place is huge, Sara! And my room is tiny, it's the size of a broom cupboard, it can't matter if my stuff stays in there. Why do I have to move out right away? I mean, eventually, yeah, but next week?"_

Sara takes a lot of time putting the milk and sugar into her tea, and purses her lips again. _"Geli, you have to move. You just do. Richard needs your bedroom for an office, so he can study. His courses are killer this term, he has to have his own space to concentrate..."_

I point to the corner of the living room where Sara put up a shoji screen last year to make an office cubby; the desk sits under a pile of dusty papers and various kinds of rubble, the swivel chair draped with clothes needing mending. _"What about that? All you have to do is muck it out, and there's your Richard's office. I think the filing cabinet is even empty."_

She doesn't look up from her mug, but just repeats stubbornly, _"You have to move out, by Wednesday. I'm sorry, I really am, but that's how it is."_

I hurl a single word into the silence between us. _"Why?"_ It just hangs there, as my sister stares into her tea mug.

I know why, I _know_ why, I just want her to say it, but she won't. Bloody coward, her, she's always been such a big chicken.

She won't look up, so I start in for her. _"Richard doesn't want your whoring little sister living under the same roof with him, does he? He's afraid it's going to rub off..."_

She snaps her head up, glaring. _"No, it's not like that at all. He thinks you take advantage of me. He thinks you take advantage, and that I need to cut the umbilical, for both our sakes."_ Looking down, she takes up the spoon and stirs her tea some more, and the tinking sound it makes is the only noise in the room aside from the deep rumble of Pablo's purring. 

I put my mind around what she's just said. Richard wouldn't be convinced that I take advantage of Sara unless she slanted things that way to him; after all, he's hardly ever seen us together, all he knows is what she tells him. So _she_ feels I take advantage of her. _She's_ ready to sever some ties. 

I feel tears spring to my eyes, and I try to swallow the rising lump in my throat. Okay, I'm not going to sit here and cry like a baby because my big sister doesn't want me around. That's just incredibly lame. Sara looks into my face, finally, and sees that I'm ready to cry. She loses her nerve.

_"No, never mind! Listen, he does have to move someplace next week, but it doesn't have to be here, I'll tell him he has to make other arrangements. It's probably too soon for us to be moving in together anyway..."_

Argh! The only thing worse than rejection is pity. I _hate_ pity, even though it can be useful at times. I refuse to leave things in this sorry state of affairs; we are just going to sit here and talk about the situation until we've both gotten somewhere with it.

Tea is out of the oven and we're nearly done eating before that's accomplished, but by the end of the meal I've gotten Sara to admit that she's the one who thinks we need less entanglement, and that Richard does indeed disapprove of me highly--I knew it!--and she's gotten me to admit that I have sometimes taken advantage of her feeling responsible for me. I agree to move out of the bedroom and pack up the few things still in there, but I can leave the cartons here at the flat until I'm done with my contract and settled someplace else.

_"What about Pablo?"_ I ask. _"Can he stay here until I get settled? Mycroft is allergic to cats, I think."_

_"Yes! Richard loves cats, he has one himself, a cute little Siamese. Pablo can stay here as long as you need him to. And you should keep your key, just in case, but maybe call before you drop in? Just, you know...."_ she shrugs, and I do know.

_"Oh, and speaking of calling,"_ Sara goes over to the rubble-filled desk in the corner, retrieves a miniature shopping bag, and hands it to me. _"Your spare phone. It's already activated and everything. There was enough cash to pre-pay it until January, so you're good to go."_

_"Thanks."_ I hope I don't have to use it, but it feels nice to have it.

The shadows are lengthening into evening by the time I'm ready to leave Sara's flat, and we are both pretty shattered from all the emotional drama, but at least we aren't left with things hanging still unsaid. We both know life is too precarious for that.

Back at the Knightbridge flat--home, I guess it is, now--back home I settle in bed with my laptop and a nightcap of Mycroft's expensive brandy, and stream some mindless television for a few hours before falling asleep. 

Sunday morning is quick and busy, since I rise rather late and I have to be ready for work by noon. I go for a run in the sunny, noisy park, re-do the wardrobe so I can find my clothes again, change the bed-sheets, and tidy up the flat in general and myself in particular. I feel like wearing white today, so white it is: white lacy underthings, a lacy little white dress with a handy front zipper, a white ribbon in my hair.

All that is finished with time to spare, so I curl up on the bed with green-gold filtering through the blinds, and read some Pushkin. All that Russian translation the other day has gotten me back into reading him again; what a brilliant poet! _Ya vas lyubil; lyubov eshchyo, bit mozhet..._

I switch to reading silently when I hear the front door at--yes, of course--precisely twelve o'clock. The musical selection today is... a quartet of soft woodwinds, viola and cello, and not a single wailing violin. Nice. 

I don't know how he gets up the stairs so silently, but I look up eventually to see him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking at the room and me in it with a contented expression. I give him a little smile of greeting, set my e-reader aside, and go to stand at the foot of the bed. 

No viewing today, he comes to me immediately and takes a wrist in each hand, crossing them behind my back as he presses me to him, leaning his nose against my hair, inhaling and sighing deeply. Holding both wrists in one hand--he really doesn't need to, but never mind--he runs the other hand over my body, caressing slowly, then trails his fingertips up my thigh and under the short hem of my dress to fondle my bare hip and bum, sliding his fingers under the thin lace straps of my knickers, nestling his face into the side of my neck. Then he grabs my bum and hauls my hips in against him almost roughly, suckling my earlobe in his mouth. Yow! Then, just as suddenly, he's released me, and goes over to the valet to leisurely and methodically hang his suit coat, waistcoat and tie.

Once down to rolled-up shirtsleeves, he takes up my wrists again behind me, and the other hand is this time unzipping the dress as he runs his mouth slowly up and down my neck and shoulder, lingering in the sensitive areas around my ear. That exploring hand finds my breasts, and teases each nipple through the silken lace until they are taut. 

I'm getting hotter and hotter, and it dawns on me that today he is seems focused on arousing me, not himself. He is, very obviously, aroused as well but every touch on my body at this moment is tightly aimed at what will make me shiver and twitch. And who am I to complain? 

His free hand reaches around to my bum again, drawing me in once more against him, and he leans his forehead against mine. We are eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, and then, unexpectedly, his lips seek out and touch mine. The contact makes me jump slightly, and gasp. He smiles just a little, then brushes forward again and again, his lips just teasing mine with the barest touch. 

My knees start to wobble slightly, and I sternly tell myself that I will NOT swoon. Shit like that only happens in bad romance novels, not real life...but the impact of being kissed by someone who never kissses...my nervous system almost overloads. If I were a computer, my circuits would be frying. As it is, I am shivering, almost uncontrollably trembling, and getting more reactive with every touch. 

He draws his head back a little, without releasing me, and looks very pleased with himself. _"I love music,"_ he muses quietly, _"but I have no talent for it. I've always wondered what it would be like, to make an instrument sing, make it respond to my touch in perfect pitch."_ His smug smile becomes a little wicked as he zeros in on my lips, and taunts me with more light kisses. One hand still tensely clasps my wrists, but the other is roaming all over my body, lingering in all the sensitive places, while his lips more and more firmly seek mine, finally parting just the smallest bit to allow a flicker of tongue to touch my lower lip. 

He pauses, his cheek pressed against mine, his fingertips anchored in the cleft of my arse and pulling me in toward him, hard. He is trembling too, his breath short and ragged. Who is playing whom, then?

Releasing my wrists, he pushes my opened dress down off my shoulders to the floor, unhooks my bra in front and lets it follow. His eyes and fingertips linger for a moment on the now mostly green-and-yellow blotch that remains on my shoulder. _"It's healing quickly. The resilience of youth,"_ he looks a little wistful as he murmurs that.

_"Helps to compensate for the foolishness of youth,"_ I point out. I wonder if he was a foolish youth? Probably, in his own way, but I doubt that I'll ever hear about it.

He turns away to retrieve the harness from the black bag in its usual spot on the floor, and as he lays the cool leather and metal against my flushed skin, his eyes flick up to mine. Softly, but with emphasis, he says, _"By the way, this is not a fashion accessory, Angel."_

I can't help it, my lips curve up in a mischievous smile. I bet I shocked him last night by wearing it to the club. _"Have you looked at the Paris runways this year?"_

_"We are neither in Paris nor on a runway."_ He tightens the buckles just so, and gives me a stern look from under lowered brows.

_"I shocked you, didn't I?"_

_"It was...a bit much at the end of a long day,"_ he admits, pulling out the wrist cuffs and carefully fastening them on me. 

_"You handled it well, then. At least, I think so..."_ I don't remember him being angry at all. I wrinkle my brow, and sigh at all the things I won't remember. I decide to go ahead and ask what I'm dying to know. _"Mycroft?"_

_"Yes?"_ he's behind me, clipping my fettered wrists to small rings at the back of the harness. I crane my head around to look at him.

_"Why am I suddenly calling you Mycroft?"_ He looks up with a half-smile, and steps around in front of me again, both hands now stroking my breasts.

_"Because I told you to."_

_"Why?"_

His thumbs slowly circle my sensitive nipples in that certain way that always makes me quiver. How does he know to do that? _"It seemed warranted."_

_"W-w-arranted?"_ I almost can't talk.

_"Earned."_

My nervous system can only take so much at a time; I back away half a step, and he releases my breasts, gliding his hands around my chest and up to my shoulders. We both rest a moment.

_"Earned, how?"_ I insist. _"Can't I have at least a hint? Not knowing is really bothering me. Or are you testing me?"_

_"Probably."_ He looks reluctant to admit it. _"I should know it's not necessary, but habits..."_ He sighs. _"Trust. You've proven worthy of a certain degree of trust."_ He starts to fuss with my hair a bit then, arranging errant strands and tidying the bow. I suddenly get it.

_"I guess I talked to you a lot the other night, then?"_

Eyebrows raised, he nods without meeting my eyes. _"Yes."_

I feel a little embarrassed, but not as much as you'd think. Like I've said, I like being looked at.

He stops with the fussing to cup my face in his hands, and this time he kisses with his lips already parted. His tongue slides delicately across my lower lip, just barely there and then gone, pulling mine just as fleetingly after it, then we meet somewhere in the middle, fully tasting each other. I swear I feel his knees go weak a few times, and he steadies himself with one hand on the bedpost behind me.

Finally he pauses, resting his forehead against mine and breathing heavily. Swallowing, he says, _"On your back, please, here,"_ he indicates the foot of the bed, so I simply sit down and lie back, looking at him expectantly. He gazes at me, lying there with my hands bound under me, wearing the leather harness and my now-soaking white lace thong, and his expression is both intense and inscrutable. It's like he's trying to memorize me, every detail and nuance, whilst still maintaining that none of it matters in the least.

Reaching down, he slides a fingertip under the triangle of wet, white lace, and shakes his head as he feels around. _"You always miss a few spots...here....and, here as well..."_

_"Well, I have to leave something for you to fuss with, don't I?"_ And out comes the shaving kit. To be honest, I actually do try to leave a few rough patches for him; it's dawned on me that if I give him something real to tidy up, he'll spend less time going over parts that are already seen to. 

After I'm smoothed to his exacting standards, Mycroft has me wriggle up higher on the bed, up to the top, as he adds his trousers, shirt and shoes to the valet's burden. Standing in his silly white vest and pants, he pauses and gives me a canny look; _"Shall we strike the same deal?"_ he asks. 

I laugh, _"God, yes, please!"_ In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say; hard to see how it could get worse.

He strips off and, of course, carefully folds his whites, then slides down beside me, pulling me in close and hard. He is pressing me against him, everywhere...then stops and make a face. _"This,"_ he taps a brass loop on the harness, _"this is in the way. Here, sit up for a moment."_ Off comes the leather strapping, and I have a hope that the cuffs will come off as well, but we're not there yet--although, he merely clips my wrists together over my head instead of needing to anchor me. Progress, of a sort.

We're deliciously skin-to-skin then, and he plays me with delight, relishing each gasp and moan and sigh that he can elicit, until he himself is so far gone that he can't stand it anymore. He stops to apply a condom, and lies back down beside me, kissing me deeply as he pulls my parted thighs toward him, searching to enter. 

Side-by-side is okay, but I desperately want him deep, as deep as possible, and the best way is for me to be on top. Following my urge, I gently push my elbow against the front of his shoulder, and roll him over with my hips as I smoothly sheath his length inside me. Suddenly, he's on his back, hands grasping my thighs on either side of his body as I kneel astride him, and his eyes are wide with surprise. I smile with triumph; didn't see that coming, didja?

I rock my hips slowly, letting the weight of my body push him as deep as possible inside me. There's a nerve plexus way up there, and when a woman is aroused to the heights I am right now, that spot becomes exquisitely sensitive to deep thrusting--the waves of pleasure are delicious. Under the right conditions I can have one little orgasm after another, rolling in waves for many minutes at a time, and if these aren't the right conditions, you can bet nothing ever will be.

His hands are urging me to move faster, and I also remember how he likes eye contact, so in the midst of my waves I lean over him, placing my bound wrists over his head and my elbows planted on either side. We are so matched for height that I am able to hold eye contact in this position easily as I ride him, rolling my hips forward and back, letting his hands on my thighs conduct the rhythm. Eyes locked with mine, mouth wide, he pants and writhes beneath me.

I can't say that we come together in one glorious burst or something, because a multiple orgasm for me simply goes and goes and goes, and keeps going for a while after everything else has stopped. Mycroft, however, does explode under me in one long, glorious burst, bucking wildly with a hoarse cry, and afterward lies there gasping and trembling, long after I have rolled off of him and curled up, alongside but not touching him.

He turns his head to gaze at me, and he is still vibrating slightly. "That...that...that was...." and he just closes his eyes and swallows. I'd love to cuddle close right now, but I don't know if he could take it, so I just close my eyes as well and enjoy how good it feels to be in my skin right now. Any moment now he'll jump up and go shower, then unbind one of my wrists....

I hear a soft snoring close by, and have to stifle a giggle. Somebody has fallen asleep, and it's not me! Well, it is a Sunday afternoon, I suppose a nap might be called traditional. 

I open my eyes to study the man sleeping beside me. A shaft of sunlight sneaks through the mini-blinds and streaks across the both of us; his hair glows dark chestnut, the red more of a suggestion than a colour. What remains of his hair, that is. Poor man, nature isn't always kind. Daddy's hairline made the same hasty retreat in his thirties, and I remember how it bothered him. Of course, by the time the cancer took Daddy he was totally bald, but that's another tale, and much sadder.

I wonder if the moles on his cheek annoy him, little irregularities that they are, or if they're granted grudging acceptance. The deep furrow between his brows is almost relaxed, but I can still see the shadow of the groove; I don't think it ever quite goes away. What does he do for the government that is so important, so essential, yet there's no name for it, no official title, nothing but incredible stress?

His breathing starts to speed up, he's on the edges of a dream...then his eyes fly open with a sudden intake of breath, and he looks at me wildly for a second, almost with panic. _"Steady on, Mycroft,"_ I murmur. He blinks, then quickly sits up, rubbing his face and obviously a little disoriented. 

_"How long did I sleep?"_ he asks brusquely.

_"Just a few minutes, not long at all."_

He jumps up and goes to shower and dress with his usual ferocious efficiency, and I settle in to doze and wait for the few minutes that I know it takes him. Shortly, Mycroft is standing beside the bed and leaning over to release me, but this time it's not just the one wrist. He takes both cuffs off me, and nods at the bathroom.

_"Please clean up and get dressed, Angel. We have some business to attend to this afternoon."_

I sit up, probably looking confused, because he reiterates, _"Shower and dress, immediately. You're coming with me."_


	12. "Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it, whispering 'Grow! Grow!'" ~ The Talmud

_"Where are we going?"_ I ask, rolling off the bed and standing up. _"What for?"_ I'm still a little woolly-headed from the tremendous romp we just had, and now I'm meant to shift gears just like that...?

Mycroft holds up a hand as I start in with the questions; he, at least, is completely composed. _"No, I really don't--just, shower and dress, and meet me downstairs. I'll have the car waiting."_ He pulls his gold pocket watch out and flips it open to check the time with a frown and starts out of the room, then turns and adds, _"Modestly, if you will, by the way. Dress modestly. And...discreetly, please."_ He motions toward my shoulder with the rapidly-fading bruise. He turns to go out the door again, then stops, and turns back, _"Oh, and--"_

I have to laugh. _"Oh, for pity's sake, why don't you just pick out my outfit for me? It will obviously save a lot of time!"_ I wave toward the mahogany wardrobe. _"Knock yourself out, have fun, I'll put on whatever you lay out for me."_

I duck into the bathroom, leaving him to figure it out. I take a quick rinse, and then blow-dry my hair. By the time I'm out, he has laid out his choices on the bed and gone downstairs. 

This certainly isn't the first time I've let a man dress me; one of my ex's used to love to do it, I think that was the main reason we were together--I was his live-in dress-up dolly. I have always found it very telling what men will pick out when left to their own devices.

This one has chosen for me to wear a very feminine long-ish skirt in navy with a tiny paisley print, a crisp white sleeveless blouse, a red-and-blue scarf, and conservative pumps. It's girly and classic and not terribly sexy, although I know I can make a wool sack look sexy if I even half try. 

What is most telling is that he has even chosen the undergarments, and which ones. He pulled out the sluttiest bra-and-knicker set I own, with matching sleazy suspenders and nude-tone stockings. Now, it takes a man to think that suspenders and stockings are a good idea on a warm August day, and a very particular kind of man to put you into your sexiest underwear when he takes you out for a Sunday drive.....

At any rate, this does indeed save a lot of time; I don't have to worry if I am going to pass inspection, and there is no second-guessing and trying on multiple outfits. I'm dressed, hair and makeup done, in record time. Mycroft rises from the sitting-room chair when I come in, checking his watch again, and nods approvingly. _"Yes. That will do nicely..."_ he takes a closer look and frowns, _"...except that the scarf isn't--come here, please."_

I obediently go to him to have the scarf done over. He arranges it around my neck instead of outside my collar, and then keeps fussing with the pleats and folds, twitching and fluffing them. His face is nearly expressionless, but his fingers feel tense to me, and that furrow is back in his brow.

 _"Why are you so nervous?"_ I ask. _"What's going on?"_

He gives me a shrewd glance, and shrugs slightly in an eloquent admission. He puts his hands into his pockets, probably to keep from further twiddling, and gives me a searching look. _"Angel--"_ he begins, then stops like he changed his mind, bites his tongue for a fraction of a second, and starts over again. 

_"Angel, I would like to remind you that your behavior out there will reflect on me. I hope I can rely upon you to be discreet."_

I can't help the wry grin that spreads over my face. _"Don't worry. I'm leash-trained as well as housebroken. I do need to know, though, how you want me to play it. Am I your date? Your personal assistant? A total stranger? Your mother's best friend's niece?"_

_"Barely acquainted will do nicely."_

I gather up my handbag and deadpan at him, _"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes."_

He gives me a pleasant nod as he takes up his umbrella and opens the door for me. _"Miss Talbot."_

It feels extremely odd walking out of the flat at Mycroft's side; somehow very wrong. It's not like I don't know how to conduct myself--I was being a smarty about leash-training, but I really did get quite the training from the Agency in proper deportment for all sorts of situations. I know that wherever it is that we're going, I can handle it just fine. 

No, it's just being out in public with him that feels odd. It's probably the same for him, maybe even more so. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye as we make our way along the cobblestone street toward the black saloon parked at the corner, and he looks totally composed, dapper and confident. Okay, so that's how we roll. I match him, stride for stride.

The car starts up as we draw near and Mycroft opens the door for me. Sliding inside, I look to see who is driving, and it's that pretty brunette, Ms. Bitchy Black Dress. She doesn't acknowledge my presence, but looks over her shoulder at her boss and, at his nod, drives off. 

We proceed in silence. Mycroft twiddles the whanghee handle of his umbrella, and seeing it twirling in his long fingers reminds me of the other night...I guess I never will know what exactly happened, will I? I really can't remember, and neither Mycroft nor the umbrella are saying a word. I suppress a giggle, and look out the window. It occurs to me that he must be quite tense, to be twiddling it like that, and his nervousness is affecting me. Where the hell are we going, and what is he worried about?

We get onto the motorway headed south. Mycroft's phone gives a chime, and he takes it out to look at the text, grimaces, and puts it back in his pocket. I sigh, and look out the window.

Quite soon we take the exit for Camberwell, and then we are pulling up at the entrance for King's College Hospital. Mycroft gets out. I'm not sure if I should get out or not, so I wait to see if he's going to come round and open my door; Ms. Bitchy Black Dress rolls her eyes at that, I can see in the rear mirror. Whatever. 

He opens it, murmuring, _"Miss Talbot."_ I climb out, and look from the hospital to him. He just gives me a bland smile, and motions that I should follow him. I do, as the car drives off, but I'm not exactly striding along. I don't get why we should be paying a visit at a hospital---oh! Sherlock. Of course. 

But why would he want me to visit his boyfriend-or-whatever-he-is with him? He certainly didn't want me to even inquire after Sherlock's health, why would he bring me here in person? I don't get it. 

As we come to the main entrance, I notice that Mycroft has brought his umbrella along. It's funny that he didn't leave it in the car, but then I remember how he had it with him when he had me brought to him in the warehouse. It wasn't raining that day, either--I bet it's his transitional object. I can't be judgmental about that, though, because I suspect that my phone is mine....especially when I'm nervous, I check a zillion times to make sure it's in my bag. For Sara, it's her keys; I guess we all have our crunchy bits.

The lobby is fairly quiet, even for a Sunday afternoon. I hate hospitals, they always smell of disinfectant and despair. I can feel part of my brain shut down when we walk through the doors and that smell hits me, it's a defense against remembering all the miserable hours spent as a helpless bystander in one hospital or another...

We sail past the lifts and go down a stairwell; how did Mycroft know I would prefer to avoid the lifts? I guess nothing should surprise me by now. 

We exit the stairwell after a few flights, making a sharp turn out into the corridor that almost sends a hurrying figure crashing into Mycroft--and it's someone I recognize after a second. It's the plainclothes cop at the Met, the one who watched the suits drag me off. He was the D.I. following up on the escort murders; I wish I could remember his name, but it escapes me. 

The two of them obviously know each other, although the cop looks surprised to see Mycroft here. Very surprised, and a little suspicious. He glances quickly between Mycroft and me, and I can tell his policeman’s mind is putting together connections.

But he affects nonchalance. _"Sorry about that!"_ he says, brushing a hand through his shock of silvering hair. _"Didn't expect anyone to come popping out of the stairs. I've been waiting by the lifts for Miss Talbot and her escort--didn't know it would be you..."_

Mycroft manifests one of his pleasant smiles as he straightens the coat sleeve that the cop brushed against. _"Yes."_

Wait a minute, the D.I. was waiting for ME? I suddenly have a very bad feeling about being here, and my stomach churns cold. I start to ask a question, but the cop has already stepped forward toward Mycroft again, and looks like he's squared himself up for a little confrontation. The two of them are oblivious to me for the moment.

 _"Since I've got you here, I have something to say. I want you to know I don't appreciate the interference."_ The cop is speaking quietly, not wanting to make a scene. _"You need to let me do my job. Restricting my access to resources is--"_

 _"He is not a 'resource,' Inspector. He is gravely ill and mustn't be tempted to overextend himself again. You'll just have to rely upon your own limited 'resources' until further notice."_ Mycroft's voice is soft, but edged with sarcasm.

 _"I just wanted to talk to him, that doesn't seem so unreasonable, does it?"_ The cop is obviously frustrated, and not taking any care at all to hide it. Mycroft seems unconcerned, although his umbrella is planted on the floor between himself and the other man.

 _"He can't hear about a puzzle without wanting to get involved in solving it, so yes, talking to him is entirely unreasonable. Your visiting privileges will be reinstated when Sherlock is well enough to be released from hospital again."_ This last is stated with quiet finality, and Mycroft rises up on his toes just a bit to tower just a little more over the shorter D.I....Lestrade, that's his name.

Lestrade glares, starts to say something, then throws his hands in an I-give-up gesture. _"Right. Fine. So, what about her?"_ he waves a hand at me. _"Are you going to let us question her now, or are you going to continue to keep her under wraps as well?"_

I didn't know I was "under wraps!" What's been going on? 

Mycroft shakes his head. _"She doesn't know anything at all useful for your investigation. There was no point in your questioning her."_

_"Then, why wouldn't you allow it? What's the harm?"_

Mycroft doesn't answer, but twiddles his umbrella handle a little.

 _"I could force the issue,"_ Lestrade threatens.

Mycroft looks unimpressed. _"I doubt it."_

Lestrade looks away, his jaw working a little, but he's obviously a man who knows when to quit. _"Right. Let's get this over with, then."_ He turns abruptly and walks quickly back the way he came. 

_"Get what over with?"_ I ask to the general air as we follow, but Mycroft is ignoring me, and Lestrade apparently doesn't hear.

We stop in front of a set of wide double doors, and when I look up, the chill in my stomach turns into painful knots. The small sign above the doors reads, "Morgue." Oh, dear god, no. 

I can feel my eyes and mouth widen with shock, and I look over at Mycroft, dumbstruck. Lestrade pulls one of the doors open for me, but I just stand frozen; he looks at my face, and then at Mycroft in disbelief.

 _"Didn't you even tell her what she was here for?"_ a noise somewhere between disgust and irritation escapes from him. _"You're worse than Sherlock!"_

 _"That very possibly might be true,"_ muses Mycroft quietly, and he leans on the umbrella planted in front of his feet, watching me with a slight frown of concern. 

I can feel most of my brain suddenly shutting down as I run away inside myself. I don't want this...I don't want to be here, so the automatic reflexes take over. A door is being held open for me, so I walk through it. The silver-haired man holding the door takes my arm and speaks to me quietly as he guides me down a corridor; his words don't really register in my head, but the kind tone does. We enter another room, a cold one with several gurneys and wall of big steel drawers. Another man, a short, dark one in a white lab coat, is there. They converse for a minute. Then the man in the lab coat pulls open one of the drawers, and there is a whiff of meat gone bad, and there is a human body under a sheet. A hand pulls the sheet down just enough so I can see the face. _"Can you positively identify him for us?"_

 _"Yes, I knew him."_ Words come out of my mouth, even though it doesn't sound like my voice. I am very far away.

_"What is his name?"_

_"He was Steen Dijkstra."_

The short man in the lab coat is holding a clipboard. _"Could you spell that, please?"_

I look at the clipboard. Spell? Yes, words have magic, that's why they call it spelling...but I don't have any right now. I just shake my head, and the motion makes a tear spill down my cheek.

The silver-haired man slides his arm around my shoulders. _"Let's get her out of here. Ashok, can we use your office?"_

It's a small office. The computer chair squeaks and creaks when I sit down in it. The short, dark man has a cup now instead of a clipboard, and he puts the warm cup into my hand, so I say, Thank You and drink some of it. It's more like tea than anything else, so I decide that it's tea and drink some more.

The silver-haired man sits down in a chair across from me, and leans forward with his elbows braced on his knees, looking at me. He doesn't look anything like my father, but he sharply reminds me of him...the name slowly surfaces in my brain. Lestrade... is looking at me closely, evaluating. He's probably gauging if I am coming out of shock or going in deeper. I shift my eyes up and see Mycroft standing just behind and to one side of Lestrade. He, too, is watching me, and his blue eyes are more remote than Lestrade's dark ones, even though I know them much better. Much.

I hold Mycroft's gaze, and ask him, _"When?"_ My voice sounds like my own again, although a little whispery and hoarse. I swallow another sip of tea, and repeat to Mycroft, louder, _"When?"_

Lestrade misunderstands, and answers, _"He was found last night...."_

I shake my head, and repeat again to Mycroft, _"When?"_ He knows exactly what I mean, and I see his tongue captured in his cheek as he lowers his eyes down to the umbrella handle slowly twirling in his slim fingers.

 _"I cast an eye over the police reports every morning, Miss Talbot. Including Sundays,"_ then he looks steadily, unwaveringly at me.

He knew, then. He knew when he came to me today. He knew, because he knew Steen's face as well as I did, and the reports always include photos of unidentified db's. That selfish son of a bitch knew, but he wasn't going to spoil his Sunday fun by telling me. I feel hot rage uncoiling in my belly. 

Lestrade is watching us closely, oozing both suspicion and curiosity, so I button up my anger and shelve it, for now. There is going to be a reckoning, but it can wait. I turn my eyes back to Lestrade, who wastes no time getting to business.

 _"Miss Talbot, I have a few questions that I need you to answer,"_ he cranes his head to glance up at Mycroft, who stands like a pin-striped statue not a foot away. _"Assuming, of course, that I'll be allowed to ask them...."_

Mycroft nods graciously, his gaze still unwavering. Lestrade looks back to me. _"Miss Talbot, what was the nature of your relationship with Mr. Dijkstra, and how long have you known him?"_

 _"We were friends, I met him about...a year and a half ago, at a Christmas party."_ Where, in a fit of extreme depression, I was bent on some serious self-destruction. Steen scooped me up, took me home and cleaned me up...

 _"Were you...intimate friends, or just friends...?"_ He sees the angry look on my face that this elicits, and looks a little uncomfortable. _"Sorry to pry, but we have to be clear, for the report."_

_"For the report, we were just friends. For the report, people can actually care deeply about each other without having to jump in bed together. Even if they are both sex workers."_

_"That, ah, was my next question. Was Mr. Dijkstra a...collegue...?"_ Lestrade is fumbling around a bit for a term, maybe not wanting to speak ill of the dead. He didn't know Steen, that it was just about impossible to offend him.

 _"He was a freelance escort."_ The first rule of working for the Agency is, you don't talk about the Agency--as far as law enforcement is concerned, we are all freelancers. I'm focused on Lestrade's eyes, but I can see Mycroft from the corner of mine and he is still as stone, his face completely composed.

 _"Miss Talbot, when was the last time you heard from Steen?"_ Lestrade shifts in the chair a bit; I think Mycroft looming right over him is making him nervous.

_"Thursday night. He phoned me."_

_"Yes, you were the last call he made. There was no identification on the body, but we found his phone nearby. Ordinarily, that would make you a prime suspect, but we've been assured that that is impossible..."_ Lestrade glances up at Mycroft again for a second, then once more at me. _"What did Mr. Dijkstra say to you?"_

Mycroft gives a microscopic shake of his head, and follows it with a stern look. _Nothing_ is the message I'm getting. Okay, I don't know why I shouldn't tell Lestrade anything, but I'm not going to go against Mycroft until I understand what is going on here. _"He didn't say much. He was...upset, but he wouldn't tell me why, or where he was. When I saw him earlier in the week, he mentioned leaving to visit family soon, in Adelaide or Amsterdam, he wasn't sure which, so I didn't even know if he was still in country or not."_

 _"Are you sure you can't remember any details of what he said to you on the phone?"_ Lestrade presses, and Mycroft's eyes narrow at me the tiniest bit more.

I make a show of searching my memory, then shake my head. _"Sorry, no. It was a very short conversation. He seemed in a hurry, and like I said, upset. But he wouldn't tell me anything. He just wanted to say 'Hi'..."_ I close my eyes as my chin starts to quiver uncontrollably, and I feel hot tears spilling over. Steen had been calling to say good-bye, and he knew it. And I missed it, because of bloody Mycroft. I ignore Lestrade's offer of a box of tissues, instead propping my handbag open on the desk beside me so I can dig in it for my handkerchief. I hate disposable anything. 

Once found, I press the soft linen to my eyes with one hand, the other balled up in a fist on my lap, and try mightily to get a grip on myself. I hatehatehate being all emotional like this in front of other people, I hate it. Crying for effect is one thing, it's a useful tool to get what you need in a situation, but crying for real is plain awful. It's pathetic.

The fist in my lap is taken up in someone's large, warm hands; I look up, still sniveling. Lestrade pats my hand both awkwardly and kindly, with a sympathetic look that seems genuine. I give him a tremulous smile. I really hope he's as competent as he is decent, because I really want the people who killed Steen to get what's coming to them.

Mycroft shifts slightly on his feet, and I glance up at him. He's wearing an expression of extreme distaste as he stares at Lestrade's hands clasping mine--he looks like he should like to spit something out. I'm not surprised, he did strike me as someone who wouldn't care to share his toys. Hard cheese, as my Auntie used to say. If you won't offer comfort, then somebody else will, Mr. Holmes. 

I turn back to Lestrade, and say _"Thank you,"_ moving my hand slightly to indicate that he should let go of it, which he promptly does. _"Thank you,"_ I repeat again, and carefully wipe under my eyes, hoping to remove any traces of mascara or eyeliner that washed down in the floods. I would've worn waterproof if Mycroft had told me where the hell we were going, but never mind. 

I lift my chin, no longer quivering, to show Lestrade that I've got a handle on myself again. _"I'm fine now. Let's get on with it."_

 _"Okay,"_ he nods. _"Okay, can you tell me if Mr. Dijkstra was in any kind of trouble? Was there anyone who would want to harm him for any reason?"_

I don't need to see Mycroft's warning look on this one to know how to answer. I sure as hell hope I’m lying for a good reason. _"No, not that I know of."_

_"Did he have any enemies, or people that he mentioned that he disagreed with? Any incidents that might have made people unhappy with him?"_

I shake my head no. Lestrade purses his lips a little. " _How much do you know about his...customers, Miss Talbot? Were there any who might have wanted him out of the way?"_

Oh, besides the chap in the pinstripe suit standing not a foot away from you, Inspector? Up to this second, it hadn't occurred to me that Mycroft would be a perfect suspect in this. He was clearly jealous of the time Steen and I spent together that afternoon, he had been an occasional client of Steen's for a number of years, and Steen might have known some incriminating things....except that I think that if Mycroft had actually been responsible for this, the body would never have been found. I can't imagine him being so sloppy, ever, case closed.

 _"No. I don't know much of anything about Steen's clientele."_ The D.I. leans back in his chair, probably trying to think of more questions to ask while he's got me.

 _"Do you know if he kept a little black book, a list of clientele? We're analyzing the data on his phone right now, but there doesn't seem to be a client database on it."_ Analyzing the data on Steen's phone? I wonder if he used to access the forum from his phone. I need to delete his account as soon as I can, just in case.

I shake my head. _"I'm sorry to be so useless, Inspector. We just didn't talk shop much at all, it's too easy to get competitive with each other when you do."_ And that may be the first true thing I've said to Detective Inspector Lestrade since I sat down.

Now it's my turn, just for a little. I ask him, _"Please, can you tell me how...I need to know what happened to him."_

Lestrade sighs. _"What I can tell you is, his body was found late last night in an abandoned building in Brixton. He was shot in the back three times, and died pretty much instantly, very likely late Thursday or early Friday morning. There was a little bit at the scene for us to go on; I'll get the ballistics report tomorrow morning, and that may tell us something more. I was hoping you could add some more information,"_ he shrugs. _"I'm sorry I had to put you through this, but it was necessary, and we may need to call you in again--"_

 _"I think not,"_ Mycroft cuts in sharply. _"She clearly knows nothing that can be of use in your investigation, there will be no need for further questioning."_

Lestrade doesn't look up at Mycroft; he just closes his eyes like he is counting to ten, then gives me a long-suffering look. He reaches into the breast pocket of his suit coat, pulls out a card case, and flips a business card out of it to hold in front of my eyes before tucking it into my open handbag. _"Keep this around, just in case, okay? Can't hurt."_ He gives me a smile that's only a little bit disingenuous. _"Just in case you remember something important. You can call me anytime."_

I nod, putting my hanky away in an outside pocket of my bag where I can find it easily. Mycroft goes to the door and opens it for me; I rise and shake hands with the D.I., the two of them exchange curt nods, and I am off, following in Mycroft's wake, winding our way back to the stairs and probably out.

My head is still reeling, just reeling. I am still in a little bit of shock, and I can tell I'm not quite all back together yet, but I'm together enough to be equal parts furious and curious. _"So,"_ I ask Mycroft, _"are we headed someplace where we can talk? Because you can bet that I've got a whole lot of questions..."_

As we exit the stairwell, Mycroft checks his pocket watch. _"No, not at the moment. You'll be dropped off at the flat. I have some important business to attend to."_

Right, isn't that classic? There's important business, and then there's you. Opposite ends of the spectrum, obviously. I stop, dead in my tracks, in the middle of the hallway. _"No. I need to talk to you, now."_ I glare at him, mulishly.

A few steps ahead, Mycroft half-turns toward me, impatient. _"Angel, COME!"_ he snaps.

Is he actually calling me like a dog? Unbe-fucking-lievable. Oh, if he wants to treat me like a dog, I'll be glad to show him what a bitch I can be. I turn on my heel and walk the other way, noticing a cluster of signs on the wall; one of them says "Chapel" with an arrow pointing the way. Perfect.

Mycroft catches up with me quickly, and puts a hand on my arm; I shrug him off violently and keep walking. _"Angelica!"_ he growls softly through his teeth, but then we are in front of the sturdy paneled door marked, "Chapel," and I turn the brass handle and go in. 

It's what you expect for a hospital chapel; a few wooden pews, a big, plain wooden cross on the wall. There is one person in the room already, an older woman sitting on the nearest pew who turns to look at us as we storm in. I lean down into her face and snarl the first thing that pops into my head: _"I'm an angel of the lord, woman! Clear out before I rain down fire!"_

With a terrified squeak, she snatches up her handbag and scurries out. I lock the door behind her, and turn on Mycroft. He gives me a very cold, very angry look. " _I don't have time for this,"_ he warns.

 _"Trust me, you don't have time to not do it.”_ I am warning him right back. _“I need..."_ I can feel tears rising again, and I fight them back furiously. _"I need to know what's going on. Why didn't you tell me about...about Steen? And why did you want me to lie to Lestrade?"_

Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs impatiently. _"I didn't tell you earlier because I deduced that you would be quite upset--which proved correct, didn't it? So why make you waste a perfectly good afternoon being upset before you had to be?"_ I open my mouth to answer, and close it again. My god, he really is a Martian. 

But there's a gaping hole in the argument. _"Okay, but why didn't you at least tell me right before we left? Surprising me that way was not very nice. In fact, it was really shitty."_

Mycroft looks everywhere but at me, and there is a long pause. Finally, he reluctantly admits, _"Truthfully, I didn't want to deal with your reaction. I've never been very good with that sort of thing."_

_"I can see it, if by 'that sort of thing' you mean an actual person having actual feelings."_

_"What you call actual feelings, I would call wallowing in sentiment."_ He's getting disdainful now.

 _"Grief isn't wallowing in sentiment. It's an inevitable reaction to loss."_ I look at him, searching. _"You knew him too, Mycroft. Doesn't it bother you, how he died?"_ I regret the words as they leave my mouth, because I already know the answer.

 _"No, not at all. Does my lack of grief bother you?"_ His voice turns sharp and mocking, turning my own words against me. _"How about if I just faked it for you? Would that be sufficient? I'm very good, most people can't even tell the difference."_

 _"I'm not most people."_ Two can play that game.

 _"Perhaps not."_ I can't quite fathom the look he gives me, except that it seems a little pained.

I look away and change the subject. _"Why did you have me lie to Lestrade? I really do have information that could help the investigation, maybe catch the killers..."_

_"I know that. And it is irrelevant."_

_"How can it be irrelevant?"_

_"Because I am standing down the investigation. There will be no further inquiry."_

_"What?! You can't do that!"_ The look he give me says, Oh, yes I can, and I answer, _"Okay, yes, you can do that, but it's not right! The police have to do their job and find the people responsible for this! They have to!"_

Mycroft shakes his head, like he's explaining something very simple to a very small child. _"No, they don't. The overwhelming majority of murders remain unsolved, Angel, and it's best that this is one of them."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because it comes too close to people whose effectiveness could be compromised in the course of the investigation."_

_"You mean, yourself!"_

_"Amongst others, yes."_

_"So, let me get this straight. You are going to declare the investigation closed, and let Steen's murderers go free, because you don't want to have any awkward questions asked. Is that it?"_

He weighs it a little. _"More or less, yes."_

_"And you don't see anything wrong with this?"_

He frowns. _"No, of course not. It's necessary."_

 _"Necessary?"_ I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin with everything I'm feeling right now, so I start pacing to try and straighten my thoughts out. Mycroft pulls out his phone and thumbs a quick text, then puts it away and waits stoically, watching me.

I give it my best shot at explaining. _"It's not decent...it's not acceptable to let this go unpunished. It's an insult to his memory to just let it go like this. It's saying that he wasn't important."_

Mycroft just looks puzzled. _"Well, he wasn't."_

It feels like a kick in the stomach when he says that. I want to cry out, _How can you say that Steen wasn't important? You were with him, many times, like you've been with me...he cared about you, he noticed you, how could you not notice him? How could you not care?_

But I don't say any of that, because it wouldn't make any difference. Not a bit. I just stand there and silently weep, because I realize that it's true, and that just like Steen, I'm not important, either. 

Tears streaming down my face, it's too much for me to keep in anymore. _"We're just disposable people, aren't we?"_ I shout. _"Like some fucking tissue that you wipe up with and toss away when you're done, we're completely disposable! Not worth a second thought, or even a first thought, are we?"_

Choking sobs tear out of my throat for a breath or two, and then I deliberately swallow the storm down. Once you really get going it's all too easy for grief to consume you, so you have to stay on top of it or risk drowning. I fish my handkerchief out and sit down on a pew to wipe my eyes and blow my nose.

Mycroft looks a little stunned. _"Angel--"_ he starts, then pauses and continues. _"Angel, surely you can accept that some people have more importance than others?"_

I nod. " _Yes, but less important doesn't mean worthless. It doesn't mean disposable. Or at least, it shouldn't."_

Mycroft's brow furrows. " _And how is bringing his killers to justice going to benefit your friend? He's dead."_

I let out something between a laugh and a sob at this; my god, he is so clever and stupid at the same time! How do I answer a question like that? That's not the sort of question anybody over the age of five would ask. I close my eyes and let the part of me that knows these things make an answer.

 _"It's not for him, it's for me. I identify with Steen because he was my friend. So what is done to him, is done to me, in a way. If he's thrown away, then so am I."_ I open my eyes to look up into Mycroft's. _"Look, I don't expect that you will completely understand how I feel, okay? You're...the way you are. I'm not anyone to be judging you, or anyone else. But please, let me help with bringing Steen's murderers in. It will help me in dealing with the grief."_

To do him credit, Mycroft looks like he gives the idea serious consideration for several minutes, but then he shakes his head. _"No. I'm sorry, but no. Every possible scenario that I run comes up with far too much unacceptable risk. The potential benefits don't outweigh the potential costs to anyone--including you."_ He says the last part with very deliberate emphasis, and I know he wants me to hear that I do, indeed, matter. Whether or not I believe it is another thing entirely.

We look at each other for a moment, and I decide that further discussion is quite pointless. I stand up and put away my hanky, signaling that I am ready to go, and Mycroft shifts around so he is by the door. 

_"I am going to stand down the investigation, Angel. You are not to pursue this matter further, either on your own or through the police. Is this quite clear to you?"_

I just bow my head submissively and nod.

 _"Good. Then we should be on our way..."_ he reaches for the door handle, but I put my palm against the door.

_"One more thing. I need some time...bereavement leave, you know? I'm entitled to some time off, aren't I?"_

He looks a little chagrined at not having thought of that himself. _"Yes, of course. How long would you like?"_

_"Would a week be too much?"_

He doesn’t look too happy about it, but says, _"Not at all. Next Sunday, then."_

I nod. _"Next Sunday."_ Six days. I reckon that's long enough to solve a murder, if I have some help.


	13. "When an inner situation is not made conscious, it appears outside as fate." ~ C.G. Jung

I love this old bridge. It's so very Victorian that it's almost a little kitsch, but I still love it. Actually, I just like bridges in general--a bridge is a place between, neither here nor there, going someplace but not arrived. Beginnings and endings are both out of the question when you're on a bridge, you're hanging in the air, over water, and anything is possible. 

I'm leaning against the smooth, cold stone of the balustrade, and peering over it into the swirling stream of the Thames below, dropping bits of leafy twig into the water, watching the current carry the green specks away. There was a stone bridge, a little one, near Auntie's cottage; when we lived there with her I spent many hours doing this very thing, going again and again to fetch more twigs to drop more bits, until Sara said I should be careful not to end up chucking the whole forest in there. 

Sighing, I drop the last bit in, and watch the murky waters swirl it away. There's a steady stream of motor traffic behind me, and the air would be thick with exhaust fumes if there weren't a freshening breeze. A horn honks occasionally, because Battersea is a commuter's nightmare most days, being such a narrow bridge. It's a beautiful Monday morning, bright and sunny, and cooking up to be a hot one. Steen used to make fun of me, complaining about the occasional hot day here in London. _"You should try a January day down around Alice Springs, girl. Now, that's bloody hot!"_

How is it that we can go weeks without thinking about a particular person much at all, but when they are dead, that's all you can think about? Guilt probably plays a part, although missing his final call is the only thing I can be reasonably accused of. I wish that had been different. 

I take out my cigarette case and light one up, despite that it takes a few tries in the breeze up here. Smoking is handy for when you are waiting, it gives you something to do with yourself. I take out my phone and check the time; ten more minutes. I fiddle for a moment with the clock display, setting it how I like instead of the default. I also notice that on this new phone the volume and menu buttons are totally different from my old one, so I'm going to have to pay attention. I like my other one better, but this one isn't traced to me yet, so it can't be used against me. I hope.

My head is such a muddle right now. I wish I felt more certain that I was doing the right thing. I feel bad going against Mycroft's wishes--not just scared, but bad. Like, I don't want to disappoint him. I have to remind myself that it's not like he actually cares; I don't know if he's capable of it, to be honest. He was so callous about Steen's death, and he must have ordered me--ordered me!-- at least three times on the way home to stay out of it, that there would be no investigation. And he as much admitted that it was because he didn't want any inconvenience to himself.

He's utterly selfish...but he was also quite kind toward me during the ride back to the flat yesterday. He actually praised me, right there in the car; he told me that I had done very well in dealing with the Inspector. I'm a little ashamed of how good it made me feel when he said it. I don't think Mycroft offers praise very often to anyone, and so there I was like a little doggie wagging my tail at him. But damn, it did feel good; still does. And the look, what I could see of it, on Ms. Bitchy-Dress's face was priceless. 

But acting kind isn't the same thing as caring. I have to remember that, because he keeps fooling me. One of my weaknesses is needing to feel special--and Mycroft Holmes sure as hell knows how to play that game.

I take a long drag on my cig and blow the smoke out my nostrils, feeling the burn in my sinuses. It makes my eyes tear up, but I can feel the fog clearing from my brain. I didn't sleep very well last night. I lay there for hours, trying to figure out what to do...

In the end, I guess my mad curiosity won out. That, and new information from one of the Agency girls on the forum; the first thing I did when I got home yesterday was to go online and delete Steen's account, notify everyone of his death, and ask if anyone had information about his activities over the past week or so. 

One girl, Joye, did. She posted a private response to my query, and after I read it I got out my new phone and called Inspector Lestrade to arrange a meeting. No matter what Mycroft does if he finds out, I'm at least giving what I know to Lestrade, in hopes that he can follow up on it unofficially or something. It's too important to ignore, and I can't trust that Mycroft won't simply toss the information out as being potentially inconvenient.

Next time I look up from the water, I see a man walking toward me along the smooth stone pavements of the pedestrian walkway; suit coat blowing open in the breeze, grey-and-white striped shirt open at the neck, no tie. When he gets up close, Lestrade gives me a friendly smile, looking out over the view of the river and the city crowded against its banks.

_"Nice spot. A little unusual as a meeting place, but nice."_

I shrug. _"I like bridges."_ And this one doesn't have CCTV cameras on it, only on the street approaches. It wasn't too difficult to lose my usual unobtrusive followers; I just hired my favorite minicab driver, the one who got me away from the black car tailing us when I stalked Mycroft's house. He understood exactly what I wanted and left my followers in the dust long enough for me to get out and hop onto a bus. I left my old phone, the one they can track, safely stowed in his cab with him; he'll drive it around for me so it will, hopefully, not look suspicious. I'll call him to pick me up when I'm done here, and none the wiser. 

The D.I. leans his arms on the balustrade, mirroring me, but refuses my offer of a cigarette. I can tell he's bursting with questions; isn't that just like a policeman? Once their suspicions are aroused, they can't stand not knowing. I finish my cig and let the butt drop down to swirl in the murk below.

 _"I have to warn you that I was ordered this morning to stand down the investigation into your friend's death,"_ he says. Interesting opening, to let me know that right away. He's working hard to establish trust. _"So, whatever you have for me is going to have to be unofficial, and we can only pull the suspects in for other crimes, not that murder. If we can make something else stick, then the murder case can potentially be re-opened."_

I nod. _"I understand your position. I wouldn't be risking...what I am if I didn't think it was extremely important."_

He turns a bit more toward me, showing his intense curiosity. _"What exactly are you risking? What do you stand to lose if Mycroft Holmes finds out you're here?"_

I look at my hands resting on the smooth granite of the balustrade. I need to tend to my nails, the polish is getting a little worn at the edges, the cuticles a bit ragged. Need to take care of that before next Sunday, although by then, it might not matter. What am I risking? My job for sure. The trust of someone who doesn't trust? Probably. Mycroft will think less of me for doing this, but I will think less of myself if I don't. 

_"Not much, in the scheme of things."_ I shrug.

Lestrade keeps pressing, though. _"What's your connection with him?"_

I'm certainly not going to answer that one truthfully, but Lestrade needs an explanation for why I have been under Mycroft's protection, and why I'm here now as an anonymous informant. I'm struck by a thought that tickles my fancy.

 _"I work under him at times."_ Truer words I have rarely spoken, and I say it completely straight-faced.

_"Gathering intelligence?"_

I nod. _"Good girls may go to heaven, but bad girls go everywhere, Inspector."_ And I give him a wayward grin.

 _"I suppose so,"_ he murmurs, and looks back out over the river. _"What is it, exactly, that he does, then? What's his official title?"_

I start to say, I have no idea, although that doesn't support my claim very well--but then it occurs to me that I do know beyond a shadow of doubt what Mycroft actually does. 

_"He makes things tidy. He fixes what's wrong. Truth be told, I think an official title would just get in the way."_

Lestrade looks at me full now, with half a smile. _"Is that a fact?"_

 _"To the best of my knowledge, yes."_ Another truth.

_"So, what happened a few weeks ago, when you were dragged out of my office? You were terrified. What was that about?"_

I blush a little at that, embarrassed at what a fuss I had made over nothing. _"It was just a misunderstanding, that's all. Wires got crossed. It was all sorted out later."_

He looks a bit relieved, although not completely convinced. _"Good. I felt a little guilty, you know, that they just took you like that."_ Yes, I know you felt guilty, Lestrade. I was pushing that button for all I was worth that night...but he continues with a frown. _"I really hate having my jurisdiction walked all over. And then I tried to call you in for questioning in the call-girl cases, but you officially disappeared. As in, it would take a high-level security clearance to even get access to a record of your parking tickets, much less an address or phone number. I wondered if something really serious had happened to you."_

Now, that is useful to know. Mycroft has made me officially disappear.... _"What, you thought that I'd been killed?"_ Lestrade shrugs and nods. _"No, Inspector, that would only be a last resort. It's apparently surprisingly complicated, I imagine because of all the paperwork."_ I give him a bright smile, and watch his brain sorting that little piece of information. 

_"So, what have you got for me?"_ he asks after a pause. I fish in my handbag and pull out the tattered novel, its lurid cover glowing orange in the bright sunlight. Lestrade takes it from me and thumbs through it, shaking his head. 

_"What the hell is this? It's not even in English."_

_"It's very possibly the reason Steen was killed. He told me that he had an item that had come to him by accident, one that some different groups wanted very much, although it was best for none to have it, and he hoped they didn't know that he did. Then some pathetic thugs pillaged his flat looking for it, but Steen wouldn't let me call the police to report the break-in...he was afraid of something."_

I take a deep breath and sigh. _"He sent it to me for safe keeping, knowing I wouldn't throw it away, and said he was going to leave the country for a while."_

_"Yeah, we found that he had paid for a ticket to Amsterdam the day before he died, but never picked up the ticket or checked into the airport. Is there more?"_

I nod. _"Yes, there is. When Steen called me Thursday night, he left a message telling me that I had to get this,"_ I wave at the book in Lestrade's hand, _"to the pigman, that that was the only way to stop 'this thing,' whatever that is. He was adamant about that."_ I look at the D.I. for his reaction, and he just spreads his hands in puzzlement, the breeze riffling the pages of the book in his open palm. So far, he's not much help.

 _"And, there was this inside the book."_ I pull the scrap of paper out of my handbag with Evan McCutcheon's name on it, and hand it to Lestrade. 

He looks at the paper and gives a little groan. _"Now, there's a name I know, and a place. Evan McCutcheon is quite the businessman."_

 _"Yep."_ I look over the water at a commuter catamaran speeding across the choppy waves. _"I went and saw him Friday night, and managed to get him to tell me who the pigman is, or, at least, what he is."_

_"And that is?"_

_"A pakhan, leader in the Russian mafia. Got anybody who might fit that description?"_

Holding the book in one hand, and the paper scrap in the other, Lestrade looks over the water for a moment. _"Mad Sacha? It could be Mad Sacha...I've heard rumors that he used to feed his enemies to the feral boars, back home...but I didn't know he was a boss."_

 _"Maybe he worked his way up. There's one thing more."_ I hand him the sticky note with the two names that I took down from Joye's message yesterday, and he glances at it quickly and shrugs. 

_"I don't recognize either of these names, although they both look to be Middle Eastern. Where did you get them from?"_

_"Another escort. She said that those two men showed up at a party last week in an ugly temper, looking for Steen, and she covered for him so he could slip out the back. She said he was terrified of them!"_

Lestrade purses his lips a little, frowning. _"How reliable is this person?"_

_"Reliable enough--I know her, although not super well. But, what if it's true? Can we afford to ignore it? That's what tipped the scales for me about contacting you; Steen wasn't one to jump at shadows. And what if they're terrorists?"_

_"Now, Miss Talbot, we aren't supposed to profile people based on ethnic background..."_

I give him a look. _"Right. And...?"_

Reluctantly, Lestrade says, _"...and, we'll follow up on them, just in case. And I'll want the contact info for the informant later."_ He gives me a hard look and adds with an edge to his voice, _"Is there anything else that you happened to neglect to tell me yesterday?"_

_"Hey, I'm here talking to you, now!"_

He has the grace to apologize, at least. Turning his back to the balustrade and leaning against it, the Inspector thoughtfully tucks the scraps of paper back inside the book, and leafs through it once more. 

_"There's nothing written inside it besides that name in the front, is there?"_

I shake my head. _"No. And no invisible ink, or dot ciphers, or anything like that."_

He looks at me. _"Are you sure that this is actually significant?"_

_"Yes, dead certain. The title means, 'The Torch,' and that's what the thugs who pillaged Steen's flat said they were looking for, the Torch. At first, I thought they meant the kind with batteries..."_

_"Lots of dog-eared pages,"_ he observes. _"And not much else."_ He sighs. _"No way I'm going to be figuring this out, but I know somebody who can. He's very good with puzzles, although he's also very ill right now."_

 _"Sherlock?"_ I ask.

_"You've met him?"_

_"No, I've just heard about him once or twice, that's all. Mr. Holmes is very protective, isn't he?"_

_"You have a gift for understatement, Miss Talbot,"_ the D.I. laughs. _"Protective, yes. Oh, yes indeed."_

_"How are you going to get the puzzle to him for solving if you're banned from visiting?"_

Lestrade looks at me suspiciously for a moment, but then says, _"Right, I forgot that you must've heard that yesterday. Well, there are ways, I have friends who owe me favors."_ He gives me the book back so he can take out his mobile, but stops and looks around at the cars streaming past just a few feet away on the other side of the wrought-iron traffic barrier. He shakes his head. 

_"There's too much noise here to make a decent phone call. I left my car over this way, let's go."_ He turns to go back the way he came onto the bridge, motioning for me to follow, but I stay planted where I am. 

_"No. I don't want to be seen strolling around with you, Inspector."_ A look ripples across his handsome face that makes me realize how that could have sounded to a male ego; I quickly add, _"Nothing personal, you understand. It's just that the approaches to this bridge are on camera..."_

Lestrade looks disturbed. _"He monitors you that closely?"_

 _"He could if he cared to. Face-recognition software makes it pretty simple these days, if you have the resources, doesn't it? So why take the chance?"_ Actually, I know for a fact that he monitors me that closely, but I don't want the Inspector to suspect that I have any personal significance to Mycroft. _"I'd prefer to wait here, okay? Then you can drive by and pick me up."_

He frowns. _"There's no stopping on the bridge, Miss Talbot."_

I roll my eyes at him. _"Fine. Then text me where I should meet you."_ I turn back to the water, tucking the book into an outer pocket of my handbag. Lestrade hesitates a moment, then strides off quickly. 

I'm quite disappointed that Lestrade didn't know more, but I don't know what I expected from the man. I get out another cigarette and fight with the breeze to light it; on the fifth try, as my patience is wearing thin and for some reason I am cursing everything in trousers, I realize that what I expect is for him to fix everything, to make it all better for me. Well, that's not terribly fair, is it? Not his job.

It doesn't take too long for Lestrade to set up a quick visit, I guess, because I haven't even finished the cigarette before there's a text from him, telling me to be ready for the car coming round; in just a few minutes a silver BMW pulls up at the kerb beside me with the D.I. inside, motioning madly for me to get in. Only a few cars have piled up behind him, and the honking and cursing is much less than I would've thought. He gives me a wide grin as I scramble over the traffic barrier and climb in, and I can't help but smile back. Got to reward good behavior...

Apparently, his contact at the hospital will be able to help us get in immediately without being interfered with; the security cameras will be otherwise employed, and the personnel who watch that room will be likewise. We'll have just a bit less than half an hour to talk to Sherlock. Lestrade is gleeful.

 _"Ha! Told you I have friends who owe me favors. You can't keep that kind of thing under your heel. People helping each other out, that's how things get done."_ He pounds the wheel for emphasis on the last few syllables, and it's such a familiar gesture that it makes me laugh out loud. 

_"What's so funny?"_ Lestrade asks.

 _"Smacking the wheel like that when you're excited. My father used to do that."_ I look at him out of the corner of my eye. _"You kind of remind me of him. He was a constable with the Met."_

_"Oh, yeah? Where?"_

_"Croyden."_ I see Lestrade wince just a little; Croyden is not an easy borough for law enforcement. _"He hurt his back taking down a robbery suspect, so they kicked him upstairs to administrative work. He hated it."_

 _"Talbot, in Croyden,"_ he says to himself, and shakes his head. _"Nope, never met him."_ It would be a wonder if he had; the Met has over 30,000 officers. Lestrade glances at me briefly. _"He's...not around any more?"_

 _"Died of cancer, just over two years ago."_ I look out the window, and wonder which hospital we're headed to. I guess I'd ask if I cared.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ he says quietly. _"Were you close to him?"_

I sigh. I was the one to bring the topic up, it's not fair to shut down now. _"I tried to be. We were close when I was young. My mum died when I was seven, though, and he just was never the same after. He...went cold."_ I keep my face turned toward the window, watching the buildings roll by us, and swallow back the stupid prickle of tears behind my eyes. I lost him so long ago that it's ancient history, you wouldn't think it could still hurt to talk about it.

We go along further in silence, so I ask Lestrade about his family; divorced, he says, no kids. He natters on about his work then, as men often do, telling me the story of his career from constable to D.I., mentioning several high-profile cases along the way. He's clearly trying to impress me, and I actually am a little impressed. He's made some significant busts, and I know just enough about police work to be aware what a coup they are. 

I've just asked him for more details about how they really managed to catch the Lambeth Creeper--I remember Daddy talking about that one, it was really strange--but then Lestrade is wheeling us into a parking garage beside a huge hospital, and it's time to go meet Sherlock.

The D.I. seems a little tense as we get out of the car. I eye him carefully, and ask, _"Is everything okay?"_

He runs a hand through his short-cropped silver hair, his nervous gesture, and reassures me, _"Sure, yeah, it should be fine."_ I look at him skeptically. _"Okay, well, you haven't met Sherlock before. He's a little...eccentric, right? You never know just what he's going to say, but if there's anyone who can figure that book of yours out, it's him, so it's worth putting up with."_

 _"What's worth putting up with?"_ I'm smoothing my skirt as we stand by the car, making sure that everything is where it should be. I'm wearing the plaid sheath dress that I wore to the club Friday, with a wide black leather belt instead of the harness, and black ankle boots. 

_"You'll see,"_ Lestrade shrugs in a helpless way, and motions me toward the garage stairs. I hesitate, though.

 _"I have a favor to ask of you, Inspector."_ He turns toward me, questioning. _"We haven't discussed it specifically, but you won't mention my association with Mr. Holmes to Sherlock, will you? The less said there, the better..."_

Lestrade frowns. _"Of course I won't mention it. Not really relevant to the case, is it?"_

_"No, not at all."_

He smiles reassuringly again, and checks his watch. _"Well, then, we need to get in there. We have just twenty-two minutes left."_

Lestrade has been to this hospital before; he knows exactly where he is going. I throw him off a little by asking to use the stairs instead of the lifts, but he doesn't argue with me about it, even though it's six floors up.

We're both a little winded by the time we reach the seventh floor, but I'm surprised how well the D.I. keeps up. I follow him down a brightly-lit corridor, and we stop in front of the door for room 707; he knocks briskly, and there is an impatient, _"What?"_ from inside.

We enter a private single room, standard modern hospital, with the usual bed and a few chairs, a big window with a nice view over some greenery. A youngish man is propped up on the bed, hooked up to an IV and a vitals monitor, wearing a standard-issue white gown with mint-green diamonds on it. He's got his head slightly turned, ignoring us and gazing out of the large window by his bed. Lots of curly dark brown hair, very pale complexion. Lestrade told me on the way up that the bloke had taken a bullet that narrowly missed his heart nearly two months ago, and now was battling a serious internal infection. I didn't mention that this was probably because he wouldn't stay put in hospital long enough to fully recover. 

The man in the bed is, of course, Sherlock. He looks a lot younger than Mycroft, a lot younger than I expected. I guess that fits, from what I know of their relationship; Mycroft is definitely the caretaker, maybe the father-figure. Sherlock is very handsome, I can certainly see the attraction. Lestrade stops with me at the foot of the bed and clears his throat. The man in the bed turns his head with a sigh, and looks at us, repeating, _"What?"_

Lestrade does introductions; _"Miss Talbot, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Angelica Talbot."_ I look dumbfounded at Lestrade, and at Sherlock. Holmes? What? 

I stare at Sherlock as my brain snaps around trying to redefine things. They're...brothers. They don't look much alike at all, although neither do Sara and I. She's brown-haired, short and curvy...

I bite my lip to keep from giggling outloud. Okay, this is pretty funny, that I thought his brother was...but never mind, it also makes sense this way, maybe more so. I just thought that Mycroft was a kind of obsessive boyfriend, now I think he's an obsessive brother. 

It dawns on me that Sherlock is still staring at me as well. His brows are furrowed together, his mouth drawn up in a look of distaste--now he looks quite a bit more like his brother, I know that look--and his gaze is unwavering.

Lestrade clears his throat yet again. _"Sherlock...?"_ No response, still staring. I look at the bag of fluids on the IV tower; it doesn't look like he's on a sedative drip or anything, but maybe they've given him something by mouth to keep him quiet. 

_"Maybe we should just go?"_ I whisper, but then the figure on the bed takes a sudden deep breath, and turns his frown to Lestrade.

 _"Is this some sort of a joke?"_ he says disdainfully. _"Because it's not at all funny."_

 _"What's not funny?"_ says a voice from the doorway. A man enters the room holding a coffee cup, he's short and middle-aged, his face and clothes just a little bit rumpled. 

_"Lestrade's little joke here,"_ and Sherlock indicates me with a slow wave of his hand. Hey! I glare at him, then look to the newcomer, who has come to stand beside the bed. He is introduced as Dr. John Watson, although he immediately tells me to please call him John. Well, no wonder Mycroft was so relieved that Sherlock had John with him last time he went missing; you'd want a doctor along, wouldn't you?

John returns my friendly smile; he's wearing a wedding ring on his left finger, so the smile isn't that sort of friendly. Still, I can tell he's quite appreciative. Married but not dead.

He takes a sip of his coffee, still smiling and appreciating. _"Angelica doesn't look like a joke to me, Sherlock."_

Sherlock looks annoyed. _"She has to be. The universe is rarely so lazy."_ He scowls at Lestrade. _"I appreciate the effort, but really--"_ and he turns his face back toward the window.

I am completely confused, and I see that Lestrade looks mystified. Only John seems to think this is normal. He calmly strikes up a convo with Lestrade about mutual acquaintances. I gather that they've known each other for a few years at least, long enough for some people to have moved on to different jobs. Eventually the D.I. asks after someone called Mary, and there is an awkward pause for a moment, which is when Sherlock deigns to turn back toward us again.

He fixes me with an intense, pale-eyed stare, and demands, _"Why are you here?"_

 _"I'm helping the police investigate the murder of my friend,"_ I say hesitantly, glancing at Lestrade. _"I have some evidence here that they think you can figure out--"_

The man on the bed waves an impatient hand. _"Evidence can wait. I need to know why *you* are here."_ He reaches long fingers to the controls at the side of the hospital bed, raising it up until he is sitting as far upright as possible, and peers at me closely again. _"Why is your hair cut like that?"_

I raise a hand to my hair, running my fingers through the ends. I've got the shoulder-length bob done today in a cute little bouffant, with the fringe swept to the side, and a black leather band holding the rest of it back behind my ears. _"Because I like it?"_ I say uncertainly. I'm not about to tell him that it's because his brother insisted.

_"You had your hair cut recently, probably last week. You are living in Knightsbridge, although you don't rent the flat yourself. Since you are also a prostitute, it would be safe to assume that you have a patron looking after you. Who is it?"_

Wow. What am I supposed to say to all that? How the bloody hell does he know all of that? In open-mouthed surprise, I look over at Lestrade and John, who both give me kind of helpless looks, then back at Sherlock. He gives me a disdainful huff. 

_"You look like a goldfish with your mouth gaping open like that, you know."_

Is he trying to get me angry, or is he really that much of a wanker? My knee-jerk reaction is to poke back, so I poke. _"Okay, right about everything except my job description. I'm just a prostitute the way you're just a nosey parker."_

Sherlock almost smiles. _"So, what is the equivalent of a consulting detective, in sex-worker terms?"_

_"An escort. I'm a paid companion."_

_"Paid...how much?"_ This elicits a huff from John, but Sherlock ignores him completely.

I give him my best charming smile. _"I'm very sorry, but if you have to ask, you couldn't possibly afford me."_

Sherlock doesn't answer, just looks, his eyes flicking here and there. _"Who IS your patron?"_ He's not asking so much as demanding.

 _"Confidential."_ I look over at Lestrade, with the tiniest suggestion of a pout. Although I feel like fuming, I know that hurt plays better than anger; it makes you seem less of a potential threat. _"Inspector, is this necessary? I know your friend is bored, but I'm not here to entertain him!"_

Before the Inspector has a chance to respond, Sherlock cuts in sharply, _"Yes, we've established that *I* couldn't afford you."_ Then, he sighs and holds out his hand. _"I'll take your case, Miss Talbot. Give me the book, please._ "

I pull the dog-eared Russian paperback out of the side pocket of my handbag and place it in Sherlock's hand. _"How did you know the evidence was a book?"_

 _"You touched the handle of your bag when you said 'evidence here,'"_ he says absently, leafing through the book. _"I could see the outline of it through the kid leather of the bag's pocket, but you aren't the type to carry reading material around with you."_

_"Oh, no?"_ Now I'm really getting angry--god, I absolutely hate 'dumb blonde' stereotyping!

 _"No. You're too self-confident to need to hide behind a book, and too curious to want to."_ Oh. Well, maybe he's right.

Sherlock takes the two pieces of paper out from the book's end pages, and examines them closely. _"You wrote this one yesterday,"_ he declares, holding up the yellow sticky note, _"but where did this other one come from? It was written with a cheap ball-point pen, by a left-handed man who usually writes in Arabic script...."_ He contemplates the two scraps of paper with a frown. 

I explain where the two notes came from, and the book, and about Steen, and about everything else I can think of. John has taken a seat against the wall beside Sherlock's bed, and is steadily sipping his coffee; Lestrade stays standing where he is, every now and again glancing at his watch.

When I pause and tell Sherlock, _"That's it. That's all I can think of,"_ he gives me a very speculative look, then gazes out of the window. Lestrade checks the time again and makes a face. 

_"Sherlock,"_ he says, _"do you think you can help us out here? Can you tell if there's actually something coded in that book that's worth people dying over?"_

The pale man riffles through the book's pages again, and looks at the soft-core porn on the front cover with a frown. _"There's nothing coded in this book at all,"_ he declares. Lestrade sighs and shakes his head at me, and I start to object, but Sherlock continues unperturbed. _"There's no code, but it is obviously a cipher. I just have to determine the algorithm. Won't take long."_

 _"Well, you'll have to let me know what you come up with later. Miss Talbot and I have to go, NOW."_ Lestrade gives me a meaningful look and nods to Sherlock and John. _"Nice to see you both,"_ he points then at Sherlock, saying, _"Take care of yourself!"_

I add my little see you later, and nice to meet you, and Lestrade takes my arm to steer me out of the room, but Sherlock calls out, _"Miss Talbot!"_ I turn around, curious, but he just frowns at me for a long moment, then shakes his head, _"Never mind."_

I look at Lestrade, who gives me an I-warned-you sort of shrug, and opens the door for me.

As we're walking back to the car, I have to ask the D.I., _"How does Sherlock know all that stuff about me? You didn't tell him, and I doubt that Myc--Mr. Holmes did, either. Is he psychic or something?"_

Lestrade laughs and shakes his head. _"I think it might be easier to take if he was. No, he just looks at details and deduces things from them."_

 _"How did he guess my line of work, then?"_

_"I don't know. I'm as mystified as you, I always am, but I can tell you that he's not often wrong. I'm very glad that you didn't ask him how he knew, though."_

_"Why?"_

The D.I. grimaces. _"Because he would've told you, and when he tells people how he deduced something, they are just about always sorry they asked."_

I nod. I bet they are.

 _"So,"_ Lestrade asks as we get into his car. _"Should I take you back to Knightsbridge, or...?"_

_"No, if it's all the same, I'd rather you dropped me off at Battersea, where we met; I can find my way from there."_

As we go, I ask Lestrade about the other cases he's working on right now, if there's anything interesting. He sighs.

_"Not really. If you've lived with somebody who does police work, you know how it is--days of boredom blended with hours of frustration, punctuated by moments of sheer terror."_

_"Yeah, I do remember hearing about that,"_ I give him a smile, then turn back to what is on my mind. _"But what about the escort murders? Anything new there?"_

_"Nothing at all, I'm afraid."_

_"Do you think that it was a serial killer, like the media were saying?"_

_"No. No, we don't think it was a serial killer at all. It was somebody who wanted it to look like one, but they didn't do their research. Not too bright, overall."_

_"What do you mean?"_ I ask.

 _"Well, a true serial killer will kill the race and gender they find attractive, so that's consistent, but serial killers don't just kill their targets, they create a personal contact with them as part of the killing, either during it or afterwards. These ladies,"_ he shakes his head, looking sad, _"these ladies were executed, pure and simple, but despite loads of physical evidence and three eye-witnesses, we aren't anywhere near to nailing a suspect. It's one of those hours of frustration things."_

_"I'm sorry to hear that, Inspector."_

We're at a stoplight, and he looks at me directly. _"You could call me Greg,"_ he offers. Biting my lip, I shake my head, No.

 _"Why not?"_ he asks. _"You were calling Dr. Watson, John in a matter of minutes!"_

That's because John Watson wasn't considering asking me out to lunch, I think, and look out the window. I need to be a little less friendly with the Inspector; there's no advantage in having him interested in me. I ask him drop me off at Roper's Gardens on the north bank near the bridge, because I need to sit someplace green and think for a while.

As I get out of the car, I ask Lestrade if he will please make it a priority to call me when he hears back from Sherlock, and as we shake hands the D.I. promises he will. 

Watching the BMW drive away, I'm suddenly quite sad. If that man were twenty years younger I'd be all over him, and I think he can sense that. Why are all the good ones always too old, too married, or too gay? Life just isn't fair.


	14. "Well, now that we have seen each other," said the Unicorn, "if you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you." ~ Alice in Wonderland

Roper's Garden isn't all that, it's just a skinny strip of green, terraced above the banks of the river, but it goes down into an old bomb crater and makes a beautiful sunken garden. It has depth, not flat and formal like some public gardens. I find a bench under a tree, looking out over the river and get out another cigarette. I've been smoking too much in the past two days, I can tell from the tickle in the back of my throat that will turn into a cough if I don't knock it off.

I light up, and lean back on the bench. What the hell just happened, in that hospital room? Why did Sherlock act like that? It was like my very existence affronted him. Why did he think that Lestrade was trying to play a poor joke on him by bringing me around? That really pisses me off. I mean, despite what Sara says, I don't expect that every single person is going to fall over themselves telling me how gorgeous I am ... my looks aren't to everyone's taste...but I've never been called a joke before. Jerk. I can understand why someone would want to shoot him.

My hair especially seemed to provoke him. Mycroft, what the hell have you done to me with this haircut? And how did Sherlock know that I just had it cut? I reflexively reach up to touch my hair, and I realize that my fingers fall short by a couple of inches when I first reach up, because my hair isn't where I expect it to be. Damn. That's how he knew.

That was just a few days ago, that I got my hair cut, and had lunch with Steen, him and his crazy sausage-roll demonstration about boundaries and relationships. That was the last time I saw that big idiot alive. I have a flash of memory, his pale face in the cold-drawer of that awful room yesterday, the horrible smell, and I very deliberately shove that memory away, filing it with the other pale, cold faces that I've had to look at. I replace it with a memory of him vibrant and alive, an annoying pseudo-brother and know-it-all.

I reach into my handbag and pull out one of the fresh hankies I've stowed in there. I know grief, I know how it goes and comes and goes again, so it certainly isn't going to take me by surprise now. My makeup is 100% waterproof, too. I cried a bucket or two last night, and I'll cry a few more in the days to come, but I also know that it won't last forever. I carefully dab my eyes.

It doesn't have anything to do with solving Steen's murder, and I'm probably just trying to distract myself, but I can feel a growing obsession with finding out why Sherlock was so angry with me. I bet it has something to do with the woman in that old photo that was sent to my stylist at Harrods. I could go there and see if Jacque still has it on her phone, but that would be pretty pointless; she didn't know anything. I can't go back and just ask Sherlock, I doubt that he would tell me anything. Besides, there are Mycroft's cameras and guards to consider ....

What about John Watson? He might know something. He seems to know Sherlock well, and certainly was easier to talk to. And whilst I'm at it, I could maybe quiz him about what progress Sherlock has made in deciphering whatever is in that damned book ... better than just hanging out and waiting to hear from Lestrade ...

A shadow crosses over the sun warming my cheek, and young bloke in dirty blue-jeans and a metal-head t-shirt plops his arse down on the bench next to me, far too close, one arm curling behind me on the back of the bench. I can smell his body odor and bad breath. _"Hey, beautiful, got a fag you could --"_

 _"Sure, here,"_ and I flick the lit cigarette from my fingers into his face. He jumps up, cursing, and I tell him he has two seconds to piss off. The plonker actually has to think about it for a moment, and I am outlining in my head where and how hard to hit him when he mumbles some more insults and stomps off.

Okay, there it is, the nasty downside to being a young lovely. Upsides: you get treated like a precious thing, you can get away with stuff that other girls can only dream of getting away with, and you get to date pretty much whomever you fancy. The downsides? Getting treated like a commodity, being hated by other girls on sight, and every grotty tosser that passes by thinks he might as well try to get a leg over. Ick.

I don't want to light up another cig, so I just lean back and stretch out my legs; I love the way they look in these low boots. I should get a pair in brown, too. So, how to connect with this John Watson? I don't want to bother Lestrade, he's got enough on his plate, but I shouldn't need to resort to that.

I pull out my new smart-phone and ten minutes of online search yields Dr. John Watson's blog about his detective adventures, his GMC medical registration profile, which clinic he's working at, a home address on Baker Street, and a wedding announcement from just this past May. Hopefully the missus won't mind if I stop by this evening for a word; I'll keep it short and simple.

I call my driver to come and pick me up, and we joke all the way to my flat about the sights that my phone got to see today, riding around up on the dash of his car as he took his fares around, and the bloke's dark face cracks with a smile again and again as he recounts the strange passengers he's had today, swearing that Mondays are madhouse days. I think I would have to agree with him.

I have just enough time for a nice run through the park, and a little something for tea, and then I reckon it's late enough for people to be settling in at home. I don't put the tartan sheath dress back on; it looks just a little too good on me, a little too short and tight. I have to try on a few outfits, but I finally settle on the navy paisley that Mycroft put me in yesterday, but paired with low-heel sandals. Watson is quite short, I think, and I don't want to tower over him too much. I don't want to be intimidating, and short men can be funny about relative heights, Napoleon syndrome and all that.

These shoes will also make it easier for me to get out of the flat without my followers noticing that I've left, I hope. I stow my old phone up in the bedroom, and pull up the blinds so I can open the window. There's a lovely, large oak tree just outside, which I sussed out last night as an impromptu fire-escape -- and it works perfectly. The window is only on the second storey, so it's not at all difficult to lean out and catch a large branch to swing out on, and then down to another. I wouldn't want to try the manoeuvre in high heels, but barefoot or in flats it works just fine.

As I drop to the ground in the early evening shadows beside the massive trunk of the old tree, I look around closely for anyone who might have seen me. There isn't anyone at all; my two watchers are always stationed in a car parked at one end of Ennismore, and I'm hoping that they are relying on my old phone as a tracking device. I take off at a brisk walk through the garden, toward the bus stop.

The bus drops me quite close to the address on Baker Street, and I don't have any difficulty finding the place. There's a diner right beside Watson's door, belching out the smell of chips frying in stale oil -- Blech, I couldn't live next door to that. I grab the brass knocker and give a few raps, then hear a woman's voice faintly calling from inside, telling me to wait just a minute, please.

The woman who opens the door is a little long in the tooth to be Mrs. Watson, so as I introduce myself, I hope I've got the right place. Her pleasant look vanishes after I ask for Dr. Watson, to be replaced by a gimlet-eyed stare, even though she is still smiling with her mouth, so I guess I have the right place. Is this his mother-in-law or something? She introduces herself as Mrs. Hudson, and there is a long pause; I wonder if she is going to ask me in or just stand there.

I finally tell her that I just have to talk to Dr. Watson for a few minutes, that's all, that it's personal and quite important. Her attitude shifts a little then, and she asks, _"Oh! Is this about a case, then?"_

_"Yes, it is. A friend of mine was murdered ...."_

_"Well, why didn't you say so? Come on in, I'll let him know he has a visitor."_ She lets me in, and bustles up a flight of stairs. The place isn't exactly what I was expecting for a doctor's residence; it's a bit on the shabby side, really. At least it's clean.

I can hear her converse briefly with a man, then she motions me upstairs to the landing. John is standing in the doorway to a flat, and he looks surprised when he recognizes me as I come up the steps.

 _"Angelica! What are you doing here?"_ he's curious, and uncertain.

I give him a friendly-but-not-flirtatious smile. _"I had a few questions for you, I hope you don't mind?"_

_"Not at all, although I honestly don't know how much help I can be. I'm the blogger, not the detective. But you're welcome to come on in anyway."_

As we start through the doorway, Mrs. Hudson flutters around uncomfortably, then blurts out, _"I'll just bring up some tea for us all, shall I? I happen to have had the kettle on to boil already, you know, so I can bring it right on up."_

 _"Yes, sure, Mrs. Hudson. That would be great,"_ John says absently.

As I pass him to enter the flat, I notice two things: first, he really is quite short, I can easily look over the top of his head; and second, this flat is not occupied by a woman. Women might visit here, but this is definitely a bachelor flop. Mismatched furniture, sagging curtains, piles of books and paper clutter on everything -- it's as shabby as the entryway, but not as clean. There is no sign at all of a Mrs. Watson, except for the ring on John's hand. Curioser and curiouser.

John gestures me over to the sofa, and pulls up a chair so he can sit across the coffee table from me, watching me carefully. I feel a little nervous, and his scrutiny is making it worse. I had been planning to play this conversation brisk and businesslike, but I think it might go better if I come off as a shy and uncertain sweet-young-thing.

So I start by apologizing up and down for bothering him like this, how kind he is to agree to see me, etcetera etcetera.

_"No, no, no, not at all. I'm glad to see if I can help."_

_"I really appreciate that."_ I stop and bite my lip, and do a little shy-girl shuffle. _"Um, well, what it is --"_ But Mrs. Hudson comes bustling in with a tea-tray then, a teapot and china cups and a jug of milk and a plate of biscuits and the whole works. And she chatters the whole time she's setting up the tea things on the coffee table. John gives me a sort of what-can-you-do look, and I shrug in return.

Eventually, as the tea is ready and she's pouring it, Mrs. Hudson pauses, and looks at me expectantly. _"So, what sort of work do you do, my dear?_ " she asks.

Oh, bugger it, the eternal question -- do I answer honestly and listen to the awkward silence, or lie and have to keep on lying and lying? John already knows my profession, but I have the feeling he would completely back me up on whatever I say right now, to spare me any embarrassment. So, this is a nice opportunity to show him what I'm made of.

I answer her with demure sidelong look. _"I'm a working girl, Mrs. Hudson."_

She says, _"Oh!"_ even though her face doesn't register any surprise at all; I think she already knew somehow. But there's not any awkward silence, not with this woman. She launches into a recitation of all the prostitutes she used to know when she danced in the nightclubs in Florida, whilst John and I sit and sip our tea, both very bemused. I'm thinking to myself that this lady probably turned a few tricks in her day, too -- she has that pragmatic sort of attitude.

We've almost finished our tea before she's anywhere near to being wound down, and I finally break into her monologue edgewise, _"Please, Mrs. Hudson, I'm enjoying hearing about all the adventures you had living overseas, but I really need to speak to John privately for just a few minutes. I'm sure you understand ..."_

 _"Oh, of course, your case,"_ she says. _"I am so happy to see Dr. Watson keeping the business afloat, as it were, for Sherlock while he's, you know, indisposed."_ She gives John a sincerely affectionate smile, then rises, smoothing her skirt. _"Well, then, I'll let you get on with it, shall I? Just finish your tea, I'll be up later for the tray. I'm just downstairs, watching the telly, right?"_ She fixes John with another of her gimlet-eyed stares paired with that friendly smile before she finally leaves us alone.

John and I just look at each other for a minute, and I have to giggle. _"So, is she your housekeeper, or mother-in-law, or --?"_

 _"No! She's not my housekeeper or anything, she's my landlady, and my friend ..."_ he seems a little sheepish.

_"She's certainly determined to keep you in line, isn't she?"_

_"That she is. Not that I need it,_ " he adds hastily, _"Not at all. But, she likes to think I do."_

I continue hesitantly. _"Well, I don't want to take up any more of your time, really I don't. I just wanted to ask if you knew, well, if you knew --"_

He interrupts, like people do when they're helping a shy person talk. _"If I knew why Sherlock thought you were a joke that Greg was playing on him today?"_ I nod, mutely, again biting my lip to show uncertainty. _"I could tell that really bothered you. Sherlock isn't deliberately cruel, you know. He's just ... he just doesn't see things the same way as other people do."_

 _"I get that, but what I want to know is, why? Why was he so convinced that I was a set-up? I swear I don't know anything about it, and neither does Inspector Lestrade."_ I let my voice get a little whingey there, a bit little-girl hurt.

_"I'm sorry, but I really don't know. Maybe you could stop by the hospital with me tomorrow and I could help you ask him?"_

I shake my head vigorously. _"No, I can't. Not an option."_ I say firmly.

I expect John to assume I'm being shy, and try to talk me into it, and finally offer to find out for me, but he doesn't. He just looks at me for a moment, and slowly puts his empty cup and saucer down on the tray. _"Mind telling me why not?"_

Okay, so he's not as simple as I thought. This bloke has one suspicious mind, and from the way he's looking at me, I have just tripped a wire; I was probably not tentative enough in my refusal. If I keep on lying, he's not going to trust me at all; if I give him a little, he'll trust all the more and I'll get more out of him later. I drop the shy-girl routine with a sigh. _"Well, Mycroft Holmes is watching that hospital room quite closely, isn't he? And Inspector Lestrade told me that Sherlock wasn't supposed to be brought any more cases until he was released from hospital. Lestrade isn't even supposed to be able to go and see him."_

I can see John fitting the new information into place. _"So, Mycroft knows that you are involved in a case, and he would recognize you?"_ I nod, and grab a biscuit from the plate to go down with the last dregs of my tea. _"But why did you and Greg come to the hospital today, and give -- Oh! The security men were gone, weren't they? Were the cameras down as well?"_

I nod again. " _The Inspector arranged it, but I don't know if he can keep calling in that particular favor or not."_

John leans back and puts his hands behind his head with a frown. _"Well. Right, so how do you know Mycroft?"_

Back onto the slippery slopes of deceit. _"I work for him occasionally._ " John raises his eyebrows, and I roll my eyes at him with a huff. _"Not that way,"_ I lie. _"I come across useful information sometimes ..."_

_"So, you spy for him?"_

I shrug diffidently. _"I've been of use to him a few times."_

 _"So you work for him, but you're still willing to go against him in bringing his brother in on a case? Do you have any idea how overprotective Mycroft is where Sherlock is concerned? I don't think he's going to be very happy with you,"_ John warns.

_"I'm very well aware of how deeply concerned he is about Sherlock."_

_"Deeply concerned? Try maniacally overprotective! Do you know, he had me kidnapped when I first moved in here? He somehow got messages put on my ATM when I tried to use it, and had me kidnapped, and brought to some deserted factory so he could try to intimidate me into spying on his brother for him ... and you think he's just deeply concerned?"_

I'm biting my lip to hold back a giggle. _"A factory, then? I thought it was a warehouse. Were there floodlights, kind of blinding?"_

 _"No, there weren't any floodlights ..."_ he says slowly.

_"Did he twiddle with his umbrella?"_

Now he's giving me a half-smile. _"Nearly the whole time. And I had to wonder, why the hell did he bring it inside with him, anyway?"_

_"So he'd have it to twiddle with, of course! He actually has quite a lot of nervous energy, you know -- he's much more high-strung than he would have you think."_

_"I suppose so."_ John leans forward, curious now, _"So, you got the messages-on-the-ATM-and-trip-to-the-deserted-factory treatment as well?"_

_"No, I got messages on the bank marquees, and angry text messages, and then I ran ..."_

He chokes a bit in disbelief. _"You ran? Where? Did it do you any good?"_

_"Nope, not a bit. I ran all over London like a daft bunny, not realizing that my phone was being tracked, and then went to Scotland Yard thinking they would help ... all they did was hold me until Mycroft's men could catch up, and take me off to the warehouse to meet with him."_

_"How did Mycroft take it, you running off like that?"_

_"Oh, about how you'd expect. He was pretty miffed."_

_"Miffed. I can imagine. Why did he need to do the intimidation routine on you?"_

_"He ... he thought I was a spy for someone else, and I thought he was trying to kill me. We were both wrong, as it turned out. Lots of drama for nothing."_

_"Oh, they're both fond of drama, believe me ... but Mycroft's a bit unimaginative, isn't he? Following the same script. I wonder how many times he's done it the exact same way."_

For some reason, that nettles me a bit. _"I think he does what works. Reducing the variables is more efficient."_

 _"You seem to know him pretty well, for just being one of his spies._ " He's scrutinizing me again.

 _"Know him well? Is that even possible?"_ I shake my head. _"He's talked to me a few times, is all."_

John huffs at me, pretending to be impressed. _"For Mycroft, that counts as a close personal friend -- why, you two are practically mates!"_

 _"Yeah, right, bosom buddies!"_ I say sarcastically. _"Mycroft doesn't really show anything to anybody, because there's nothing to show. It's all a performance, smoke and mirrors."_ I didn't think I was so bitter, until I hear it come out of my mouth that way.

John looks thoughtful. _"Well, he seems to get by well enough. You know, it wouldn't be a bad thing if sometimes Sherlock would borrow Mycroft's smoke and mirrors, as you call it. Even if it's not completely sincere, he could stand to be just a little more aware of other people's feelings,"_ John pinches some air between his fingers to illustrate, " _as well as he's aware of his own --"_

I jump in there. _"See, Mycroft is aware of other people -- I think he just doesn't care. Or, maybe he only cares as much as he has to. As for his own feelings and needs, I think he honestly believes he hardly has any at all."_

John looks professionally interested. _"You think he's repressing?"_

_"Hell, yes, and it makes some things come out in some very strange ways ... are you a psychiatrist, then?"_

_"No,_ " and he looks a little chagrined. _"I just, ah, have spent some time over the past few years reading up on things, you know ..."_

_"Oh, I can understand that. I spent quite a lot of time trying to figure Mycroft out at first ... I studied a lot of psychology at uni, so it's all still pretty fresh ..."_

John smiles. _"So, what are your conclusions, after close observation?"_

_"Basically, that Mycroft is a big arsehole."_

John laughs so hard I think he's going to fall off his chair. _"Oh, oh, oh, that's good! Yes, I would have to agree, that is my professional opinion as well! Oh! It's nice to hear someone say that out loud, it really is."_

When he calms down, I go on. _"Well, I mean, he's definitely got some OCD going on, and probably other stuff, but the whole point with mental illness is that it's an *illness*-- the person is sick with something completely beyond their control, that gets in the way of living their life, right? Well, I don't think that much of Mycroft's behavior is completely beyond his control, and the parts that are don't have a huge impact.  If there's anything at all about him that makes him a nutter, it's that he could care less if you think he's a nutter."_

 _"...and that sounds quite a bit like the conclusion I reached about Sherlock!"_ John smiles ruefully and shakes his head. _"You know, he likes to call himself a high-functioning sociopath, but Dissocial Personality Disorder just doesn't fit his behavior; he has a conscience, he can feel guilt, but those things are inconvenient so he just ignores them. We've had arguments about the sociopath thing. He gets really defensive if I challenge it, so I just let it alone."_

 _"Can you blame him, John? I can't imagine him parading around saying, 'Yep, I'm a huge arsehole!' It's much classier to cop to an edgy mental illness ... more dramatic that way ..."_ I have to stop there, because John is on the verge of falling out of his chair again.

 _"Oh, and we must have our drama!"_ John subsides to a chuckle, and in the easy silence I sense a good time to throw in some more questions.

_"So, did Sherlock say *anything* after we left this afternoon? Anything at all, either about me or about the case?"_

_"No, not really."_ John shifts in the chair and crosses his legs; I can tell that hard chair is probably hurting his bum, but he might take it the wrong way if I suggest that he move to the sofa. _"Well, shortly after you and Greg left, he did blurt out, 'I can't believe he would go in for something like that. It's absolutely appalling.' I asked what was wrong, and he made a face and told me that he was fine, just severely disappointed. I pointed out that Greg undoubtedly meant well, but Sherlock didn't answer. In fact, he didn't speak again for the rest of the afternoon. That's actually not unusual, and a pretty good sign that he's working on your case. I'm sure there'll be good news shortly."_

 _"I hope so,"_ I murmur. Appalling? Ouch. He might have been talking about Lestrade -- or he might have been talking about Mycroft. And me. Why else did he demand -- twice! -- to know who my "patron" was? And if he could correctly deduce my profession and where I'm living right now, god only knows it wouldn't be hard for him to figure out who I'm working for ...

Bloody hell, if that's the case, I've really put my foot into it this time. I had no idea what Sherlock was like, or I'd never have gone in there to talk to him. I have to admit it was pure curiosity, because Lestrade could've passed the book and my information along nearly as well without my being there. I inserted myself into the situation because I could, and I wanted to meet him ... and now Sherlock might aware of things that Mycroft would rather he weren't. And, if so, it's totally my fault .... On the other hand, why the hell should it matter to me? It's not like I matter to him ...

 _"You are thinking awfully hard about something,"_ a voice says, quietly bemused. I look up and blush to see that John has been watching me at my furious cogitations.

I just close my eyes and shake my head. _"Yeah, thinking awfully hard after the fact rather than before. I seem to be making a habit of it, and it's not a good thing."_

 _"How old are you?"_ His voice is still quiet and bemused.

_"Twenty-four. Well, almost. At the end of October."_

_"So you're twenty-three. I wouldn't have guessed. You seem much older."_ He shifts around in the chair some more, and sighs. _"That's a good age to make mistakes, twenty-three. You still have plenty of bounce left to recover from them. It's harder to recover from a bad choice when you're older, you know. You should try to make all your mistakes now, if you can."_

I look up to see such sadness in the doctor's face. He looks haunted. And angry. And ... I don't know, just everything all at once. No doubt it has to do with Mrs. Watson, wherever she is, but I have a feeling that asking him about it wouldn't be very welcome. I try to lighten the mood a little. _"I don't think it works that way, although I seem to be carrying on like I can make all my mistakes right now and get it over with! I honestly can't believe how thick I am sometimes."_

His expression shifts to compassion and concern, and I can tell that he's going to launch into distracting himself from his own troubles by focussing on what he thinks are mine. I smell a sermon coming on. _"You're not trapped, you know, Angelica,"_ he says earnestly. _"You don't have to stay where you are, doing the work that you do. Whatever mistakes you have made, you can make other choices. You are better than you think."_

God save us from the helping professions! _"I know I'm not trapped. I don't feel trapped. I choose this, I choose what I do. I decided a while ago that my life wasn't just going to happen to me, I was going to choose what came, and I have. The minute I start hating my job, I'll find a different one."_

He looks skeptical. _"You can't be telling me that you like being a prostitute, or -- working girl or escort or whatever euphemism you're using! Surely you can think of a better way to make a living ..."_

 _"Well, I like sex and I like money; where's the problem?_ " I drop the tough-girl attitude as quickly as I put it on; it really doesn't suit me. _"Honestly, most of the time I actually do enjoy it. The majority of my clients are just looking for some way to create a human connection, and sex is the only way they know to do it. They think it's for entertainment, but the truth runs much deeper than that. You know, I was in school to become a counselor, to help people live better lives. This is just like that, only it pays much better."_

He's shaking his head. _"It's nothing like! I don't even see how you can say it is."_

_"How is it different?"_

_"I've been in therapy, I know what a counselor does ..."_

_"And have you utilized professional intimacy services as well?"_ I'm being playfully supercilious to keep this from getting too heavy, and he can't help but smile at that one, but he's still a little uncomfortable.

 _"I, ah, I was in the military for a few years."_ He stops whiffling, and says, _"Yes. Yes, I have."_

_"So, what was the difference, in your experience? Both people were performing a service to make your life better, both were exchanging their time and attention for your money. Both were trained in their profession, either formally or informally, and both saw themselves as professionals. Pray tell me, what's the difference?"_

John is thoughtful for a moment, then gives me a look that says, _You aren't going to like this._

_"I'm sorry to say, the difference is how I treated them. The difference is my attitude, and the amount of respect accorded to each. The difference is that one was an educated, respectable mental health worker, and the other was ... not."_

_"Well, I'm not a common kerb-crawler. There's a difference."_

_"Are you sure about that? Really sure? Because I don't know if the rest of us can quite see that there is one."_

Right. I am so done with talking to this man. I stand up abruptly, and brush the biscuit crumbs from my lap. _"Thank you so much for letting me take up your time, but I really have to go or I'll miss my bus. Perhaps I'll see you around. Thanks again for listening to me."_

John blinks in surprise, but stands up to shake my hand. _"It was my pleasure, Angelica."_

I don't wait for him to see me to the door, I just grab my handbag and go, slipping down the stairs quietly so the landlady doesn't hear me and try to corner me for another conversation.

Once I'm out and away, and riding the bus back to my flat, I take stock once more of what John told me. Well, it's not certain exactly what Sherlock meant by what he said, you could take it several ways. I am not certain what he's guessed, or rather, deduced about Mycroft and me. Maybe nothing.

Maybe he knew that I'm an escort and where I'm staying because Mycroft told him! That's not the sort of stuff that anyone would tell a boyfriend, but a brother? Why not? Although, to be honest, Mycroft doesn't seem like the type to even confide in his brother, but you never know.

Once back in the Knightsbridge neighborhood, it's a piece of cake to climb up the old oak tree and back through the open window. I close it only partway, because it's a warm night and the breeze outside feels good. I flop down on the bed and check for messages on my old phone; Sara has called, yippee. I think I'm still mad at her for letting her boyfriend move in, because I've had no inclination to phone her and talk about Steen's death, much less the visit to the morgue. Especially the visit to the morgue. Damn Mycroft and his surprises!

And speaking of the devil, I can see from the phone log that there were also two calls from a restricted number, exactly ten minutes apart, but no voice message left from either call. However, there is a text message in my queue -- and it's from an identified number, sent immediately after the last call: _'Need to speak to you regarding your friend. MH'_

So, it looks like he thought I was ignoring his calls, and he is indirectly asking me to phone him ...? The text was sent almost an hour ago, so I hit the number to dial a voice call right away. Maybe he's changed his mind about investigating Steen's death.

 _"Angel."_ It's definitely Mycroft.

_"Hey."_

No hello-how-are-you, no preamble. He jumps in with, _"You might like to know that I've arranged for your friend's remains to be transported to Australia, for disposal by the family. If you wish to see him off, I can send a car for you tomorrow morning."_

This catches me off-balance, and I have to think about it for a moment. _"I, well, yeah, I would. Yes, thank you."_ I hadn't even considered the practicalities of a funeral, or any of that, but of course that would have to be seen to. _"Thank you very much."_

 _"Not at all. A driver will come round for you tomorrow at half past eleven."_ Then, click, that's it.

I look at the phone in my hand, taking it all in. He's given me his personal phone number. He's making the arrangements on behalf of Steen's mum, whom I know wouldn't have the money to fly his body home. He's making sure I get to say goodbye. Of course, it doesn't sound like he'll be joining me in the send-off, but still, it's pretty thoughtful behavior for a heartless bastard.

Well, he did say he was good at faking it.

I heave an enormous sigh and go downstairs to have a cup of tea. I hate being ambivalent. I like to pick a stance and stay with it, not whiffle all over the map. And I am whiffling around about Mycroft -- it's like part of me hates him, and part of me is obsessively attached, and I can't manage to stay in one or the other camp. That's what Auntie used to call whiffling.

Tea in hand, I curl up on the sofa and have a look at my email and other online stuff; I'm especially interested in anything that might pop up on the escort's forum concerting Steen's last doings. I don't find any of that, but I do find a new query about "Mr. Tate!" It's from a new recruit, a bloke who goes by the name of Xander. He says he has a meeting scheduled with "Tate" on Wednesday night and is a little nervous, given the "polite but creepy" reputation that client has, so he is looking for more feedback and the latest scoop.

There is something like an explosion in my stomach, and I am simultaneously enraged, and appalled at myself for being so angry. God, there's nothing worse than feeling sick with jealousy when you know you have no right to it. Agh!

I have such an urge to throw my mug across the room, I make myself set it down -- slowly! -- on the coffee table, then I jump up to pace the room around. God! I ask for a week off and the pathetic sex-addict has to run and set up a meeting with the new boy, with a name like Xander, of all things! Can't even last six days without getting his end away ....

I throw myself down into an armchair, furious at Mycroft. And furious with myself for being furious with him. Bloody hell, what am I coming to? Steen was right, I don't know shit about boundaries. But there's no more whiffling about at the moment, is there? I hate Mycroft with a passion right now, equal parts hate and passion. I am such a mental mess ...

I'm suddenly desperate for a smoke, so I grab my cig case and lighter, along with my laptop, and park myself upstairs on the floor beside the open window, leaning over to exhale the smoke out and keeping the burning cigarette just inside the casement. I read Xander's query over again a few times, and then a very ignoble idea surfaces in my mind. It's not very nice, but it's also not exactly vicious, either.

I spend quite a lot of time carefully wording a response to Xander, one that sounds like I'm struggling to stay neutral, yet manages to make "Tate" out to be a client you wouldn't want to get anywhere near. If the boy doesn't outright decline this assignment, he will at least be so nervous that both of them are guaranteed to have a miserable evening. After I send it off, I feel a million percent better.

Xander must be online right now, because an answer comes from him quite quickly, thanking me for my honesty about what is obviously a very difficult client. I can't stop grinning, but it's probably not a nice grin. I _almost_ feel sorry for Mycroft.


	15. "In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order." ~ C.G. Jung

The skies are soggy grey by late morning Tuesday, but I'm not going to stay home because of a little rain. I don't have a big, fancy, sexy umbrella like Mycroft's -- yet! -- but I've got my little polka-dot compact one, and it will do. I'm waiting for the dot of half-past eleven to go out the door, because I know that is when the car will be there to pick me up and take me to the airport where they are going to be loading Steen's body.

This is as much of a funeral as I am going to attend for him, so I've dressed somberly. The bruise on my shoulder has all but faded away, only a few yellowish marks remain, so I can pretty much wear whatever I like again. The most appropriate outfit I could come up with is a black leather skirt that's not too mini, black go-go boots, and a blouse in rich aubergine. My trench coat is beige, no help for it, but otherwise the outfit works, I think. I check my handbag to make sure that I have fresh handkerchiefs, and both my phones. Lestrade still hasn't called, damn it. I really want to know what is coded in that book, and why my friend had to die for it.

At exactly half past the hour, I hear car tyres swooshing on the wet cobbles. I open the door, and wrinkle my nose. The black saloon -- it's a Jaguar, I never really noticed before -- is driven by that brunette again. She's probably Mycroft's main personal assistant, and I just need to get over how her attitude toward me makes me feel; it's not like it should matter to me.

I sprint to the car, dodging rain-drops, and let myself into the back seat. Ms. Bitchy-Dress drives off like the car is still empty. Whatever. I busy myself with sending texts to Sara that she won't respond to, and looking out of the window at the foggy, wet city.

We don't head to any airport that is familiar to me, but to some sort of military installation well out of town, surrounded by official-looking fencing and a gate-house where my driver has to show her I.D. to a uniformed guard before we are admitted. Driving through a maze of plain, unmarked buildings, we finally reach an airstrip where a fair-sized cargo plane is being loaded from several lorries; she parks beside one of them, then looks at me in the rearview expectantly. I get out.

It's not raining any less here than in the city, so I pop open my brolly and make my way toward the plane, watching the two men who are unloading crates and wheeling them into the belly of the airplane. I don't doubt that Steen's casket is on one of those lorries, so I just have to wait here until they get to it. I station myself on the other side of the loading ramp from where the lorries are parked, to see yet be out of the way.

It's very odd how this feels like a very proper thing to do, to witness his casket being loaded onto an airplane. It's important, but I really can't distill the reason why it's important into a single concept. As I'm musing on this, and waiting, I realize that I'm not standing here alone anymore.

I shift my brolly over to see Mycroft standing to my right, sheltering under the black roof of his umbrella. He gives me a little nod, and I reply softly, _"Hey."_

Well, what do you know? And, of course, I immediately wonder if he's faking it or sincerely means it, being here. How am I supposed to tell? And, honestly, does it matter which it is?

He takes a silver cigarette case out of an inner pocket of the dark grey suit under his over-coat, flips it open, and offers it toward me. I pull out a cigarette, murmuring a thanks, and he extracts one nimbly with his lips before replacing the case in his hand with a sleek silver lighter. We both puff away in silence, waiting.

Finally, just about the last thing, I think, a packing crate that is unmistakably casket-shaped is unloaded. The men carefully heft it down from the deck of the lorry and onto a low cart, slowly wheeling it toward the plane's loading ramp. At a gesture from Mycroft, they halt a few feet away.

We stand there in silence. There's no script for this; I don't want to or feel the need to make a big scene, but I can't deny the tears running down my face, either. I toss the butt of my cig down under my heel.

 _"Good-bye,"_ I whisper. _"You were a good big brother. I wish we could've had longer."_

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I give a nod to Mycroft, and he waves a hand to send the casket rolling into the belly of the airplane. The loaders bang the doors closed and fasten them, whilst Mycroft takes me by my elbow and pulls me off the runway proper, so we will be clear if it should take off; I notice that he's moved us further away from where the two black cars are waiting with their drivers, and he's placed us so our umbrellas are toward them, our backs to the steady breeze and chill rain.

I dry my eyes and regain my composure; Mycroft looks out over the airstrip at the green hills in the distance. He seems lost in thought for a while, finishing off his cigarette with a last, hard draw and, after contemplating the butt a moment, tossing it down into a puddle. He looks over at me, probably wondering if I've gotten myself back together again, and I nod in answer to the unasked question.

Mycroft takes a deep breath _. "It seems that yet again I owe you an apology. I should have warned you before taking you to the morgue. That was ... not thoughtful."_ He sighs and looks down _. "I'm not usually so careless,"_ he adds pensively. _"I seem to be making a habit of offending you."_

I shrug. " _Collisions are a byproduct of proximity."_

He looks at me keenly, then gazes at the mist-shrouded green hills again. _"Well, then, perhaps the cure is less proximity."_

_"Or a willingness to tolerate collision. Mycroft, I'm just hurting, I'm not devastated."_

He gives me a guarded look and says bluntly, _"You've been acting devastated."_

 _"If you think this is emotional devastation, then you've led a pretty sheltered life!_ " bursts out of me, and then I realize that he probably has. He's probably spent his whole life avoiding emotional intensity, his own and everyone else's. No wonder he is terrible at dealing with it.

But it's not just him. I look down at my shiny black boots, standing in a puddle on the shiny black tarmac. _"But you're not entirely wrong. I think loss does hit me harder than most."_ I tap the puddle with the toe of my boot, making small splashes. _"Dylan Thomas wrote, 'After the first death, there is no other.' That line means a lot of things, but to me it means that every loss is experienced as a re-play of the first one. I lost my mother, horribly, when I was seven, you see, so..."_ I let my voice trail off, still looking at the black puddles.

There's a long pause, then he says gently, _"Given that, I would deduce that you might react to each subsequent death from the perspective of a frightened child, then."_

I nod, and chance a look up at him. _"Not bad, but I would add, that's the place I *start* from, not where I stay. Only someone completely lacking in insight stays down in their initial grief. It eases in layers."_ I bite my lip and ask uncertainly, _"Does that make sense?"_

 _"Not really,"_ he admits. _"But I've never experienced the loss of anyone I cared for."_

I can only stare. He's middle-aged, and never yet had anyone he cared about die on him? _"You're like....a virgin?"_ I blurt out incredulously.

Mycroft blinks and seems a little appalled. " _That's one way to put it, I suppose. A rather odd way, though ...."_

I give him a rueful smile. _"Well, consider the source."_ A thought strikes me. _"You almost lost Sherlock earlier this summer, didn't you? That must have been really hard, coming so close."_

He is silent, but the look in his eyes says more than enough. There is a long pause, then he admits, _"That was when things began to go a bit ... pear-shaped for me. And since then, all sorts of other situations have conspired as well."_

_"But didn't it get a whole lot better just the other day?"_

_"Alas, that has proven but a false dawn,"_ he pronounces with sardonic drama, and anchors his free hand in a trouser pocket. The steady breeze begins to throw up little gusts now, rattling the bright polka-dot nylon of my brolly and throwing rain against my bare knees.

 _"Anything I can do to help?"_ I ask with just a little knowing smile.

He answers with a look that clearly says, _You are most certainly joking._

 _"No, I really mean it,_ " I insist.

_"I believe you are on leave for another five days, are you not?"_

_"What did I just tell you about initial grief and subsequent perspective? I'm not where I was Sunday."_ I silently add, And I'm not completely miffed at you anymore. I give him a cheerful smile. _"I believe I should be fit for duty, say, tomorrow evening? Wednesday?_ " Which is when he is scheduled to see Xander; yes, I'm testing him, and no, I can't help it. I am one jealous bitch, that's for sure.

He contemplates the puddles on the tarmac for a moment, then asks, _"Are you certain?"_ The frown between his brows says that I'd better be.

I nod, _"Yes, I'm sure. I promise I won't go whiffling about, changing my mind on you."_

_"Very well, then, tomorrow evening. Half past eight --"_

Inside, I shout, _Yes! I win! Ha!_

_"-- but unfortunately subject to change as circumstances arise --"_

I shrug nonchalantly. _"I don't have plans to go anywhere tomorrow night. Stop by when you --ack!"_

A blast of wind gusts across the airstrip, and catches under my little compact umbrella canopy, turning the whole thing inside-out. I battle with it for a minute, half-closing it so I can get the delicate aluminum ribs straightened out again, cursing softly as the wind tousles my hair around and splatters cold drizzle down my neck. It stops suddenly, and I see that Mycroft has shifted his umbrella over so that I'm shielded against the wind and rain as I'm getting my own brolly back together.

Just as I've gotten it to rights again, he reaches over and fusses with my hair, tucking the messy wisps back behind my ear -- then, he deliberately runs a slow fingertip around the sensitive curve of my ear, sending shivers down my spine. The gesture isn't tender; it's exquisite torture, and as I shudder with the sensation, his lips twitch into a small ghost of a smile. Our eyes are locked for a moment; if he were anyone else, I would be expecting him to kiss me, the erotic tension is so intense -- but not him. Not out here. I pop my little brolly back up and sidle away.

He gestures toward the cars, and we turn and slowly walk toward them. There is a question burning at the tip of my tongue right now; he's probably not going to tell me a damn thing, but I have to try. With anyone else, I would lead in with a lot of preamble and preparation, but with him I think it might be better just to jump in.

_"Mycroft, why did you want my hair cut like this? I saw the photo that the stylist was working from, she showed it to me. Who is the woman in the photo?"_

Walking beside me, his face doesn't change expression at all, but he draws in a deeper breath, and he lifts his chin. The question makes him feel defensive, then. There is a long pause, and I decide that he's probably not going to answer it, when he remarks. _"A whim, really. I don't often indulge my whims. This one seemed harmless enough."_

_"It is harmless. I was just curious ..."_

He huffs softly at me, just as we reach the cars. _"You and your curiosity!"_ But the way he shakes his head doesn't seem to to be entirely disapproving.

He opens the door of the black Jaguar for me, and I climb in without another word; I just give him a smile, which he doesn't return. That's okay, because he's looking at me and not through me now; it's enough.

Ms Bitchy-Dress delivers me back to my blue door in Knightsbridge, and I dash from the car to the overhang again. The rain seems headed to turn into a light mist, and the grey skies are getting lighter.

I have just settled in on the sofa with a nice cup of tea and some calming reading when my new phone rings. I dig it out of my handbag and see that it's the Inspector ringing me. My stomach surges with excitement that there might be news on the investigation.

_"Hello, Inspector Lestrade! Have you got something? Is it good?"_

Lestrade laughs, probably at the undisguised enthusiasm in my voice. _"Yes, it's good all right. Sherlock figured out why people have been after that book!"_

_"What was the cipher? What did it say?"_

_"Sorry, but I can't tell you anything more over the phone..."_

Eagerly, I ask, _"Do you want to meet someplace to talk? Should I come to the station?"_

_"Well, I happen to be on my way to the hospital to talk with Sherlock and pick up the book, as we have another window of opportunity today, you know? I could pick you up on my way there."_

I hesitate. I would really like to stay in the middle of this thing, to find out first-hand what is going on, but I really, really don't want to face Sherlock again. I have a feeling he will be just as cutting to me as he was yesterday, and every moment I spend around him is asking for more trouble for Mycroft.

_"No, thank you very much. One dose of Sherlock is all I can take for now. I'll talk to him if it's really necessary for solving the case, but otherwise, I'd rather just get my information through you later, okay?"_

_"Well, I was hoping you would come, in case he has more questions for you,"_ Lestrade sounds amused. _"But don't feel bad, you wouldn't be the first person that Sherlock has scared off."_

I refrain from hotly denying that I am scared of Sherlock, largely because I know that anytime I have the urge to hotly deny something, it invariably turns out to be true. It galls me that Lestrade might think I'm a coward, though. _"Listen, why don't I go ahead and meet you in the lobby of the hospital? It's not far from here, I'll take a cab."_

_"Let me pick you up, and you can wait in the lobby if you don't want to go up. There's no reason for you to take a cab."_

Yes there is, I think, I need to shake my followers before I get to the hospital! _"I'm feeling independent today, Inspector. Tell you what, I'll meet you at the hospital lobby, but you can drive me back home afterward. Okay?"_

Lestrade sighs. _"Okay, meet me at the hospital in forty-five minutes. You remember which one?"_

I assure him that I do, and when we hang up I immediately call my favorite driver. He's available, and I arrange a pickup at my door here a few minutes from now, and for him to squire my old phone around town again for me after we shake my followers and he drops me someplace near the hospital. I don't even have time to change, really, so I just freshen my hair and makeup, and quickly gulp down some of my tea.

The D.I. is already in the lobby waiting for me when I arrive. _"Are you coming up?"_ he asks.

I surprise myself by shaking my head; I guess I'm not as concerned about Lestrade's reaction as I thought. _"I'm sorry, not unless it is absolutely necessary."_

Lestrade just shrugs, though. _"Okay. Just, sit tight down here, and I'll talk to you when I'm done upstairs."_

I choose a seat that is well out of the way of any CCTV camera -- no sense in taking any chances -- and pull out my e-reader to pass the time. I'm still chewing my way through more Pushkin and my Russian is improving as a result, although I suspect that my accent is atrocious.

A few minutes later, my phone rings; it's Lestrade.

_"Miss Talbot, can you come up here, please? We need more information, and there are only fifteen minutes left on the clock. You know what I mean, don't you?"_

_"Yes, I know what you mean,"_ I sigh. _"I'll be right there."_

Jamming my reader back in my bag, I swallow a spike of fear as I stride for the lifts. The shiny steel doors are gaping open, a small herd of people filing in, and I am able to slide in amongst them quickly. Someone has already pushed the button for the seventh floor, so all I have to do is concentrate on not freaking out, and watching the series of little lights above the door as they go bing-bing-bing with each floor.

I hop out at seven, rather rudely pushing several people aside to get out more quickly, but panic does that to a person, I guess. I walk quickly down the bright hall toward the room we were at yesterday. God, I don't want to do this! But I don't want Lestrade to think I'm a complete wimp, either.

I have a deja vu as I walk in-- it's just like the scene from yesterday, sans John Watson. There's Sherlock in the hospital gown in bed and hooked up to an IV, and the D.I. standing at the foot of bed, looking at his watch.

Sherlock fastens his intense, pale gaze on me, and immediately launches into his questions.

_"What was the exact phrase that Evan McCutcheon used when you asked him who the Pigman was?"_

_" 'On yavlyayetsya pakhan,' "_ I answer promptly. I'm not going to offer to translate, in fact I'm not going to offer a damned thing.

He mouths the words silently, and nods, as if he expected it. _"Yes. And what did the language of the men who attacked you on the stairs sound like?"_

I stop and think about that. Yesterday, when I related all this to Sherlock, I just said that they had spoken a foreign language that sounded familiar. Rolling it around in my head right now, I blurt out, _"Rumi -- I mean, Persian. It sounded a little like Old Persian, but I only read it, so I'm not absolutely certain ..."_

 _"Farsi,"_ he says, and looks pleased with himself. He turns to Lestrade. _"You see? It fits, it all fits. Now we just have to locate the codebook."_

Codebook? I look over at Lestrade, but I'm not going to ask any obvious questions here, I'll wait until I can talk to the D.I. privately.

 _"*We* are not going to be locating anything, Sherlock. I'm turning all of this over to SO15. This never was an official investigation, and you have never been officially on the case."_ Lestrade frowns, and glances at his watch.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. _"Then I shall continue to not be on it, officially. You'll have a hard time deciphering the equations even if you do find the codebook."_

Lestrade spreads his hands wide _. "Not my problem. I'm on homicide, not terrorism. If we can tie this in with the murder of Miss Talbot's friend, then we will, but otherwise this case will be landing on other desks than mine. I've done all I can, and probably more than I should."_ Lestrade gives an involuntary glance at his watch again.

 _"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about my brother's ire, Inspector. If he finds out, I do believe there are angels who will intercede on your behalf."_ Sherlock gives me a tight-lipped little smile, and I really would like to punch him, right in that handsome nose. How does he _know_?

Instead, I turn to Lestrade. _"Are we done?_ " I ask impatiently.

The D.I. nods, and holds out his hand to Sherlock, who opens a drawer in the bedside stand to pull out the tattered Russian paperback and give it to the cop. Lestrade turns the book spine-up, and peers into the bottom edge. _"Did you put it back in here?"_ he asks.

Sherlock nods. _"Yes, although I didn't bother to re-seal the opening. Of course, I took the liberty of making a copy, so if you should happen to lose it ..."_ he gives the D.I. a smile that's only slightly smug, and they exchange a look that tells me they've trod that ground before. Lestrade regards the younger man patiently, and pockets the book in his overcoat. I wonder what the hell that exchange was all about, and I'm about to ask, when I become aware that a pair of fierce blue eyes are turned on me once more. His eyes are narrowed, lip slightly curled, and I can tell Sherlock is about to vent some of his disappointment at Mycroft in my direction.

That's it, I am simply not going to take any more of this. I don't care what the deal is about my hair, or anything else. I just want out of here. Before Sherlock has a chance to say a word to me, I put my hand, palm-out, toward him. _"Talk to the hand. I'm gone!"_ And I turn tail and run.

It's not my proudest moment, but I'm not going to be the target for his shit with his brother, and my gut is telling me he had a whole pile of it aimed and ready. There might have been some real useful insight or information about solving Steen's murder in there as well, but I'm pretty sure that he can tell that to Lestrade just as well. In fact, he may have made up that stuff about needing to know what McCutcheon and the others said in order to get me to come up in person, so he could have a go at me.

Well, I'm in no hurry now, so I take the stairs down to the main lobby and take a seat to wait for the D.I. He doesn't take long to come down and find me, searching the room with a worried expression.

_"There you are! I was afraid that you had bolted from the building as well."_

_"No, I just wanted to get away, before he started in on me."_

_"I know Sherlock can be hard to take sometimes, but he doesn't mean any harm --"_

_"You and Dr. Watson keep saying that, and I keep not believing you."_ I shrug. _"Whatever. So, what did he tell you? What's the deal with that damned book?"_

Lestrade looks around us at the people thronging around, and it's almost comic how surreptitious he is, except that I know he is for real. _"Not here! We need to go someplace a little less public ..."_

 _"Well, you could take me out for lunch,"_ I suggest causally but with a winning smile. _"I love Thai food, and I haven't had any in ages."_

I know that I'm sending him confusing signals, but he's just going to have to deal with it. I want all the information I can get from him, and a restaurant will facilitate that; he'll be far more relaxed and unguarded. I'll only stoop to flirting if absolutely necessary.

It doesn't prove necessary, fortunately, and Lestrade seems like he is able to take my change of attitude in stride without putting too much stock in it. We end up in a quiet corner of a shabby restaurant over platters of pad thai and panang curry, and the D.I. recounts for me what he has gleaned from his consulting detective.

_"First of all, there is no cipher, no code, nothing like that. There was a micro-card embedded in the spine of the book!"_

I'm dumbfounded. So that's what Sherlock and the D.I. were talking about. " _What? How?"_

Lestrade pulls the book out of his pocket, and turns it toward me, so I can see the spine. _"See how the spine isn't creased, even though the thing has been read to death?"_ He turns it so I can see the spine edge-on. " _Didn't you notice that the glue on the binding was extremely thick? Well, neither did I, so don't feel bad. Sherlock did, of course. He said that the Soviet-era bindings on cheap paperbacks used a hard glue that was laid in very thickly, thick enough for a small hot knife to make a pocket in, and insert a micro-card."_ He points to the bottom of the book's spine. " _See the hole?"_

I take the book from him, and carefully examine the tiny slot that has been cut into to bottom of the book's spine. Just inside the pocket, I can see something flat and dark grey...I reach in with my fingernails as tweezers and pull out a tiny rectangle, hardly bigger than my pinky-nail. It looks just like the micro-card in my phone.

I hold it up to my eye, and tell the D.I., _"I really want to know why Steen had to die over this tiny little thing."_

Lestrade sighs. _"I wish we knew how the book came into your friend's hands, it would really help in putting it together,"_ he says. He's looking a little nervous at my handling the micro-card, so I reinsert it and hand him book. He pockets it again. _"The nearest we can figure is that a 'bratva' with a branch here in London has teamed up with a very innovative chemist, or even an entire laboratory someplace; the lab is developing novel compounds, and the 'bratva' is selling them off to the highest bidder."_

 _"What kind of chemical compounds?"_ My nose is sniffly already, but I spoon some more curry over my rice anyway. Might as well get all the water-works running.

_"Mostly designer drugs; there's a huge market for club drugs that are slight chemical tweaks from the versions that are controlled substances. They can be sold legally, or at least the dealers can't be effectively prosecuted, and the effects are novel enough to attract thrill-seekers --"_

I swallow a mouth full of fiery curry and reach for my tea. _"Yeah, but some of those novel effects are sheer hell in the comedown! The trip is sometimes definitely NOT worth the afters ... or, so I've heard ..."_ I finish with a lame smile at Lestrade's frown and take another bite of curry, and change the subject. _"Mmmm, this one is good. Do you want to try some?"_

Lestrade shakes his head, looking a little disturbed, then takes up his own fork with a sigh and moves on. _"It's not just designer drugs that this lab is putting out, though. They seem to have access as well to bio-terrorism technology, and they're not squeamish about putting together some really nasty stuff and offering it for sale."_

_"Okay, but what does this lab have to do with the micro-card, and Steen? Put it all together for me, please, I'm not Sherlock!"_

Lestrade leans forward and speaks even more quietly. _"The micro-card contains the laboratory notes--baisically, it's a chemist's recipe book! Sherlock says it has detailed formulas and procedures for synthesizing half a dozen substances; from the descriptions given in the lab notes, some are recreational, and some are extremely lethal, potentially on a large scale."_

I think about that for a minute. _"Soooo, then, the middle-eastern guys who we aren't supposed to be profiling because that would be racist and we can't do that but we do anyway because sometimes they really are terrorist-sympathizers,"_ pausing to take a breath, I grin at Lestrade, _"Those guys, the ones who were after Steen, might have been after the micro-card for the extremely lethal formulas? And that's why this affair is going to be referred to SO15?"_

He nods. _"It's a possibility that we can't ignore. It'll be up to the counter-terrorism unit to deal with it, at least that part. The drug trafficking will come under the jurisdiction of the NCA, and I don't know how they're going to divide it up, and I don't really care. I wish we could tie in your friend's murder, it would make a tighter case, but we don't even have a body anymore for further examination."_ He looks at me intently, probably judging my reaction. _"Did you know that? Did you know your friend's remains were appropriated this morning?"_

I look down at my teacup. _"Yes, I knew that, I was there when they loaded him this morning. I said goodbye."_

There's a long silence. Lestrade leans on his elbows, and watches me drink my tea. _"Miss Talbot, potentially solid evidence has been snatched away before we're done with it, and we both know who is responsible! This means we almost have no case. I was hoping to have Sherlock take a look when he's released at the end of the week, but with nothing for him to examine, there's very little chance that we will be able to apprehend anyone. Doesn't that bother you?"_

My god, it hadn't occurred to me -- how could I be so stupid! Mycroft wasn't just giving Steen a respectful send-off, he was ensuring that there couldn't be an investigation. I close my eyes, feeling a plume of anger rise through my belly, and at the same time, seeing why he did it.

 _"I should think you would be furious at him ..."_ Lestrade continues, but I'm not going to join him in Mycroft-bashing.

_"Of course it bothers me, of course I'm angry! But I also understand that Mr. Holmes truly believes that an investigation would endanger ... important people. I don't understand WHY he believes that, but if he does, then what he did makes perfect sense."_

_"So, you're okay with this?"_ the D.I. can't believe it.

 _"Well, I don't have much of a bloody choice, now, do I?!"_ I get out a hanky to press against my leaky eyes again. Between the curry and the grief, my eye makeup is taking a serious pounding right now. I draw in a deep and shaky breath. _"Besides, it looks like this thing is a lot bigger than just Steen's death. There are potentially many more lives at stake, aren't there?"_

Lestrade looks sober and nods. _"At worst, yes. There is one formulation on there that Sherlock said could wipe out millions of people, if the synthesis actually works ..."_

 _"My god, what is it?"_ I ask, but Lestrade shakes his head, and I huff at him impatiently. _"What, do you not want me to be worrying my pretty little head about such matters?"`_

_"No, but you are a civilian, and already too involved in this. If you need to know more, you'll have to ask Mr. Holmes to get you the clearances."_

Hrumph. _"Can you at least satisfy my curiosity about one or two things?"_

_"Depends on what they are."_

_"For one thing, Steen thought it was tremendously important for me to get the book to the Pigman -- you thought that might be Mad Sacha? Why would it be so important that he be given the book, and the micro-card?"_

Lestrade picks at his plate, chasing a pad thai noodle around the edge and thinking. Finally, he shrugs. _"It's likely that Sacha Doreshchenko is the boss of a gang that is a rival and enemy to the the one who is selling the chemical formulas."_ He smiles mirthlessly. _"Russian organized crime isn't really very organized, at least not outside of Russia. It's made up of lots of small gangs, loosely bound by temporary alliances, and with a tendency to fight pretty viciously over turf. They also specialize in various enterprises, maybe in an attempt to reduce competition and fighting. Sacha's group is heavily invested in transportation, which is one of the industries worst hit by terrorist activities -- he hates terrorists, won't deal with them at all. Rumor has it that he has actually foiled some attempts on his own --"_

_"Ha, so this Mad Sacha is a good bad guy?"_

Lestrade shakes his head. _"No, he's as much a baddie as any of them. His business interests just happen to occasionally line up with the public good."_

I think for a moment. _"But, what difference could it make if this gang had the formulas instead of someone else? It just doesn't add up ..."_

I let the comment dangle there for a good, long time, but the D.I. shows no sign of picking it up. _"You aren't going to answer that, are you?"_

He smiles an infuriatingly attractive smile. _"Nope."_

I give him one right back. _"Well, I suppose I could just go and ask him, huh? I bet Evan McCutcheon knows how to find this 'pakhan' Sacha Doreshchenko--"_

Lestrade cuts me off. _"I hope you're joking, I really do. Trust me, you do not want to have anything to do with Mad Sacha. I've met him; he's a smooth operator on the surface, but under that, he is completely unstable. Dangerous. Those people would eat someone like you alive."_

I sigh. Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. _"Okay, then, how about this: Sherlock mentioned a codebook? What codebook?"_

_"Whoever recorded the laboratory notes on the micro-card encoded the actual formulas, so the information on the thing is essentially useless unless you have the key, which would be contained in a codebook of some kind. It might have been the Russians' way of making sure they got their money, you know -- pay us for the information, now pay us more so you can actually use the information. Or, the lab where the information originated might have been safeguarding their material. We don't know yet."_

_"Who has the codebook?"_

The D.I. wipes his mouth and crumples his serviette beside the empty plate. _"No idea. Not yet, anyway. We'll have to see what SO15 can dig up. Now,"_ he places his palms down on the table firmly, _"Miss Talbot, are we done with our meeting here, or was there some more information you were hoping to cajole out of me?"_ He says it with the merest hint of a smile.

I blush, and look down to hide the embarrassed grin that spreads across my face. I need to stop underestimating people.

The rain stopped while we were in the restaurant, and as we leave I see that the sun is cautiously peeping out, so I have Lestrade drop me off at the park near my flat; thanks to Sherlock, he knows I live in Knightsbridge, but there's no need to show him my front door, or to show my watchers whom I've been traipsing around the city with. I sincerely thank him for lunch, and for giving me what information he could.

 _"Don't mention it -- really, don't mention it. To anyone, okay?"_ he says. _"The less you say, the better. You've done the right thing, now you need to just try to forget about it, right?"_

_"Right. Thanks again. And, if you find out anything about Steen, you'll let me know, won't you?"_

_"Sure thing,"_ he replies, but the look he gives me says there won't be anything.

 _"One last thing, Inspector, please?"_ He looks over at me with an exaggerated What-now? expression. _"There hasn't been any progress on the escort murder cases, has there? You've pretty much given up on finding out who killed Calypso and Regina and Tanya, haven't you?"_

The D.I.' s face falls a little, and he sighs _. "The cases are still open and we're working on it, but the truth is, Miss Talbot, most murders go unsolved ... we do our best, but that's the reality."_

The reality for people like me, you mean. What do a few more dead prostitutes matter? But I just give him an understanding nod. _"That's what I've been told. I just wanted to know. Thanks."_


	16. "We learn by going where we have to go." ~ Theodore Roethke

Wandering the green-shaded pavements of the park, I find a vacant, mostly-dry bench between the playground and the rose garden to flop down on. I feel scattered, overwhelmed, and a little too warm; the sun isn't just peeping out anymore, it's starting to feel tropical. I pull open a few more buttons at the neck of my dark shirt, and fan out the collar a little for some ventilation.

Listening to the squeals and laughter of the small children playing nearby, I try to make some sense out of all the pieces of information whirling around my head. Renegade chemists, Russian middlemen, a chemical synthesis that could kill millions? Steen somehow got landed with that book, and even if he didn't know exactly what was in it, he knew something bad could happen if it fell into the wrong hands -- but why did he also say that it wasn't going to matter after a few months? And, why didn't he just destroy the bloody book and be done with it? And who would want to shoot him, if he was the key to finding it?

Oh. Someone who didn't want the book found. Like, say, 'Mad' Sacha Doreshchenko, aka the Pigman.....

My brain is starting to fry. I rub my forehead and pull out my cigarette case. I have definitely been smoking too much lately, but I need something to ease the tension I feel gathering behind my eyes right now.

Lighting up reminds me of Mycroft, this morning. That was the last thing I expected, for him to show up like that. I still don't know if he was sincerely showing respect for Steen or not, but I guess in the end, it doesn't really matter. He was there because he knew it would make a difference to me, and that's what counts; he was showing me that he really did regret how he handled things Sunday. At least, that's what he wants me to think ... ? He might also have been trying to appease my anger at him for not allowing an investigation. Or, all of the above -- and, damn him, it seems to have worked.

I hate it when I can tell I'm being manipulated and it works anyway. It feels like giving in -- but I'm not giving up on helping to bring in Steen's killers if I can. I'm a little disappointed in Lestrade; he seems to think that Sherlock is the only hope of solving the case. I don't deny that Mycroft's brother is good, but I don't think he's magic. Truth be told, I don't want him on this case, or anywhere near me.

He acted like I had done something wrong, just by looking a bit like someone else! Like it's my fault. It's someone that both brothers know well, obviously.... she wasn't anyone famous, I think I would know if I looked like anyone famous ... so she's probably a relative. She looked about my age, in her twenties at any rate, and from her style I'd say that the photo was definitely taken sometime in the very late 1960's. That's about when Mycroft was born, or a little before ... weird to think that he could have been a tiny baby when that photo was taken ....

Oh, my god. Eeeeewwww! No. I cannot possibly look like their mother, I refuse to. That is just too creepy for words. It's got to be somebody else. I sure as hell don't want Mycroft to have chosen me because I happen to look a little like his _mum_ , for goodness sake! That's ... humiliating.

I take deep drag on my cigarette and give myself a very attractive coughing fit. Well, I've asked Mycroft outright, and he won't tell me who is in that photo, and I sure as hell am not going to go and talk to Sherlock about it, so the only thing to do is to forget about it for now.

So, what do I do with myself the rest of the day? Stretching my legs out in the dappled sunshine, I knock the ash off my cigarette and consider; I'll finish this smoke, walk to the flat and change. Then I really should hit the gym for a few hours; I've been slacking off lately. Maybe some karate sparring practice if there's anybody there who wants to go a few rounds with me, or I can at least practice my _kata._ I need to come up with some creative ways to get more information about this Doreshchenko and his connection to Steen, and I get some of my best ideas during a workout. Later I can pick up some takeaway on the ride home for tea .... and I desperately need to do some laundry tonight...

I find a bin to toss my finished cig into, and head for Ennismore Mews. It's a pleasant walk to the flat, there are so many leafy trees and tiny gardens along the pavements here that it almost feels like you haven't left the park. It's a very quiet neighborhood, too, for being in the city. I'm going to miss this place when I move on ... and I need to start looking in earnest for another flat to share or that I can afford on my own, unless things don't work out for Sara and her Richard. Although, living on the posh side of the street might have spoiled me for good...

As I round the corner at one end of Ennismore, lost in my thoughts, I'm confronted by a handsome young bloke leaning against the building like he's been waiting for me. He's about my age, tallish, with gorgeous, thick ginger hair in a coppery halo around his head. Broad and athletic, he's dressed in neat, black motorcycle leathers, although I don't see evidence of a bike or helmet. He doesn't smile, but looks at me coolly, and steps out from the building as I pass.

I keep striding on, and the ginger bloke falls in step with me, following four or five paces behind. My stomach knots up a little, tensing in anticipation. If he's a predator looking for an easy victim, he's got quite a rude awakening on tap. If he's just a tosser looking for a date, I might consider taking his number and meeting him for a drink; I'm partial to ginger men, and from the glimpse I had this one is very, very toothsome.

However, I'm not going to lead him to my doorstep, so I circle around Ennismore and make for the corner where my minders are usually sitting in the black saloon. If Ginger and I are going to have a chat, I want it to be right beside that car. Just in case.

They're not there! Damn them, why do those goons have to be underfoot when I don't want them around, and scarce when I do?

Oh! I almost smack my forehead and say "duh!" Of course, they are off following a cab driver all over London, because I arranged it that way, and I've forgotten to call the driver and have him bring back my phone that has the tracking lock on it..... Bloody hell. Okay, plan B --

I swiftly turn around and take a step toward the ginger; he stops in his tracks, eyebrows elegantly raised, big blue eyes unblinking.

 _"Excuse me, why are you following me? What do you want?"_ I don't give him a smile or any friendly signals at all; predators look for victims who are nice to strangers, they are less likely to fight back.

He moves toward me slowly, hands loosely in the pockets of his black jacket, and stops close enough for me to catch a whiff of the leather he's wearing; close enough for me to break his nose with a hard right jab, if I have to.

 _"I was looking for a good place for us to stop and talk."_ His voice is mild but kind of growly, and his English has a trace of a foreign accent; I can't tell exactly what just yet.

 _"This is as good a place as any. What do you want? And I should warn you,"_ I point upwards at the roof-line across the street, _"We are in full view of several security cameras that are constantly monitored."_

Ginger looks at me and shakes his head with a sardonic smile. He pulls his left hand out of his jacket pocket and shows me a pair of compact wire-cutters, clacking the jaws of the tool for emphasis _. "Not monitored at the moment, I think."_

My stomach sinks and clenches at the same time. Okay, I'm on my own, and this bloke is not just after my phone number. _"What do you want?"_

He turns his chiseled face to look around us, standing as we are on the pavement right outside the windows of one of the other flats, and shrugs, fixing me with a cool stare. _"You have been asking about the Pigman, so he has been asking about you."_

McCutcheon! Damn that pasty-faced lump of lard! He must have run straight to the _pakhan_ after I talked to him.

I affect nonchalance. _"Why should he bother? I'm nobody. I just heard that McCutcheon knew someone called the Pigman and was curious about it."_

" _You may be nobody, Miss Talbot, but you know somebody. Several somebodies. Pakhan would like a word with you, is all."_

I sigh, and look around the deserted, quiet cobblestone street. I could do with a black Jaguar cruising by just now ....

Looking back at the ginger, I notice that he has a fine, white scar running from his chin up along one cheek, disappearing into the russet halo at his temple. I reach out a finger to touch it lightly, and he instinctively flinches back from the intrusion. _"That scar looks like it hurt. Must've bled a lot, facial wounds do. Was it a knife?"_ I run my fingertip over it, just brushing the skin. His pupils react, and a pink flush creeps into his lightly freckled cheeks. So he likes girls. That's good.

I have no idea at all why I'm doing this, counter-intimidating him, because I am running on pure instinct at the moment. Instinct and adrenaline. He blinks those cornflower-blue eyes at me, and swallows. _"Yes,"_ he says thickly. " _Was knife._ "

Stress has made his accent surface, and it's definitely Russian. _"It healed up quite well, didn't it? Just enough of a scar to be interesting, not enough to make you at all ugly."_ Now I smile, and it's just very slightly predatory. _"So, did your Pigman send you to take me to him, or to entertain me, or both?"_

Ginger swallows again. _"He would like a word with you."_

I make a show of considering. _"Tomorrow would be convenient, about one o'clock?"_

He shakes his head _. "Now."_

I shake _my_ head. _"Now isn't terribly convenient for me, I'm afraid. I have an appointment."_

 _"Then you will be missing it._ " Ginger slightly shifts the hand that he is holding in his right pocket, to draw attention to it. I'm not surprised to see that it looks like he has a gun in there, or something that is supposed to look like a gun. It's hard to tell, but I really have no desire to find out if that thing shoots bullets or water -- and I wanted to find out more about this Pigman anyway, didn't I?

It strikes me that I am feeling weirdly calm for someone who is being abducted at gunpoint. I'm nervous, but not afraid. If anything, I'm annoyed; I really didn't want to spend all day in this outfit, it's not all that flattering, and the vinyl go-go boots are starting to pinch my feet. Oh, well.

I look pointedly at Ginger's pocket. _"Well, I guess I can't argue with that, can I? Are we walking or driving or--?"_

 _"I have a car. This way, please,"_ and he motions for me to walk beside him.

With one last look around at the empty street, and up at the motionless security cameras, I comply. I really wish that I had my old phone on me right now. It would be nice peace of mind to know that whatever happened, Mycroft could at least track me. As it is, my phone is happily riding around in a cab somewhere in London.

Ginger takes me down one street and up several more, to a shiny black coupe tucked away in a crowded car park. He opens the door for me, and gestures with his right pocket that I should get in.

This is the moment of truth. I can try to overpower Ginger, and hope that he is bluffing about having a weapon. Or, I can get into the car, go and see this Pigman, and maybe find out another piece of this mad puzzle I've gotten myself tangled up with. There's no doubt in my mind that I'm willing to risk a ride with this bloke to maybe get a little closer to what's going on. But I am also aware of the flutter of uncertainty in the pit of my stomach as I get in.

Once we have pulled out of the car park, I decide to distract myself by chatting up Ginger. _"What's your name?"_ I ask him as we drive. _"You were so busy being tough and intimidating back there that you didn't introduce yourself properly, you know. Bad manners."_

He glances at me sidelong. _"Dimitri,_ " he says, shortly.

 _"Dimitri,"_ I repeat. _"That's a nice, normal Russian name, isn't it? My name is Angelica, it's a little unusual for an English girl these days. I was the only one at school. It's a family name, I was named after my mother's mother. Nice, huh?"_ Dimitri just nods.

I keep chatting at him despite his brusque answers because the more I look at Dimitri, the more I wouldn't mind finding out firsthand how Russian men are in bed; unfortunately, as a group they don't have a good reputation. Rumor has it that they are clueless about female anatomy, and prefer to remain that way. On the other hand, the male escorts I know say that the gay men, at least, are fantastic lovers. Steen always said that his dream job would be a lifetime contract with a Russian sugar-daddy.

It dawns on me that, for all I know, this bit of handsome next to me might have pulled the trigger that killed Steen. Dimitri could have been the one that shot my friend in the back and left his body to rot. I turn my face out the window and concentrate on keeping track of our location.

We stay south on the motorway, finally exiting for Croyden, Daddy's old stomping grounds. It's changed a lot since I was a kid, very little looks familiar to me. Dimitri and I seem to pass pretty quickly through the prosperous parts of town and shortly are driving around the more dubious side.

I keep track of the streets and turns, and when we pull up at an unobtrusive old brick uilding on a small side-road, I have a decent idea of where we are. Dimitri drives around back to a large roll-up service door in the rear alley, and sends a text. We sit, the engine idling, Dimitri tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting. He tries again with his phone, this time making a call. No answer. Finally, he mutters something in Russian -- it's probably cursing -- and opens his door. He stops and points a finger at me, _"Stay put!"_ before getting out.

I'm not interested in running away; I just sit and watch him pull up the rolling door, and we drive into the dark delivery entrance. He parks the coupe by a loading dock, and tells me, _"Out now, please."_

The place is dark and smells like a wet basement, at least out here. Dimitri leads me up the steps beside the loading dock to a battered steel door. Once again, he knocks and waits. And waits. Cursing again, he tries the door handle, then rummages in his pockets for keys. I try not to grin, I can tell he's getting embarrassed. This is not going according to plan.

Obviously at his wit's end, Dimitri starts kicking the door, making a hollow booming sound that echoes loudly. The door is snatched open between one kick and the next, and a skinny, older man in chinos and a polo shirt stands in the doorway, shouting in Russian. Dimitri shouts back, and they shout at each other for a few minutes. I can't follow what they're saying very well, because they are talking far too fast, but it's pretty clear what's going on.

Finally the old bloke moves aside, and Dimitri motions me through the door. Inside it smells quite a lot better, and it's at least dimly lit. We go through a maze of hallways, until we come to another door. This one has two large, well-muscled and grim-looking men guarding it, one bald and the other with a dark pony-tail, both in blue-jeans with black t-shirts and dark sport-coats. It's a strange sort of uniform, but it seems to work for them.

The bald one asks Dimitri, in Russian but slow enough for me to follow, _"Is this her?"_

Dimitri looks like he's had enough from his co-workers today. _"Would I bring her if she wasn't?"_ he huffs in Russian. _"Stupid! Of course it's her."_

The bald guard looks me up and down with a smile. _"Nice. Very nice. What is this one for?"_

Dimitri shrugs, and answers, _"How should I know? He says bring her, I brought her. Is he ready?"_

Baldy looks at his watch. " _Close enough."_ Pony-tail knocks on the door, receives a reply, and opens it. Dimitri firmly grabs my elbow _. "Come on,"_ he says, and he pulls me through into the room beyond.

It's like night to day in here. The rooms beyond the guarded door are opulent, tastefully decorated and very comfortable, in a leather-armchair, men's club sort of way. It reminds me a bit of a boutique hotel, really. There's a massive wooden desk situated to one side, and behind the desk is a massive man. His neat beard and curly hair are mostly iron-grey, but peppered with black, and it looks like he also affects the t-shirt and sport-coat look. Actually, given that he's obviously the boss, the underlings are probably affecting _his_ look.

He is waiting for us, and stands up when we enter the room. I extract my elbow from Dimitri's grasp and walk on my own toward the huge desk. I don't want it to look like I was dragged here.

Moving calmly, I stop in front of the desk and give the giant bloke a friendly smile. _"Hi, I'm Angelica. It's so nice to meet you."_ I reach out my hand to shake his, and wait to see what's going to happen. There is a long pause, and the _pakhan_ just looks at me, his dark eyes small and sharp above his round cheeks and bristly beard. Then he takes my proffered hand in a hard grasp, his huge paw with thickly padded fingers and manicured nails engulfing mine.

He waves a hand at Dimitri; _"Go,"_ he says in English, and Dimitri gives a sharp nod and vanishes.

Now it's just me and the Pigman. He's as tall as I am, even in these boots, and nearly wide enough for three of me. Not wavering his gaze off me for a second, although his expression is quite friendly, he nods toward the other side of the room, where there is a plush leather sofa and a few armchairs. _"I am Mr. Doreshchenko. Please sit down, Angelica. We do need to have a talk."_ His voice is warm and pleasant, cultured, although his English is more heavily accented than Dimitri's.

I choose the sofa, curling up at one end of it. Doreshchenko goes to a sideboard and pours two glasses of wine, offering me one, and I take it with a murmur of thanks. He sits down on the sofa beside me, the furniture creaking under his weight, and offers his glass to touch mine, but I beat him to the toast. _"Vashe zrodovye!"_

It feels for all the world like a scheduled first meeting with a client. I find myself automatically considering what he's likely to want, how to manage his bulk and girth for maximum comfort, and how to keep from getting crushed in the process. I have to smile at myself as I sip my wine -- such a pro I'm becoming. But that's not what I'm here for, it's not that sort of meeting. I have to remind myself that this genial bloke very possibly arranged the murder of my friend.

Finally, he breaks the silence. _"My associate Mr. McCutcheon tells me that you have been curious, Angelica."_

I nod and smile, and sip my wine. It's very nice, a soft red that isn't too astringent, and with loads of character. It tastes terribly expensive. The silence stretches out, but I'm in no hurry to fill it. I wonder if this Doreshchenko uses silence to test people.

Finally he leans toward the coffee table with a soft sigh, places his wineglass on it, and turns a little more toward me. _"Curiosity is not a good thing, you know. It makes people nervous. You made Mr. McCutcheon very nervous, and he in turn has made me nervous. This is not a good thing, to make men like us nervous."_

His tone and face indicate that he is intending to offer me good advice, so I put on my _padwan_ learner face. _"I see. I'm very sorry, I didn't mean any harm."_

He just looks at me again, fixing those shiny little eyes upon my face for a while and letting my words hang there. Finally he grunts and leans over to pick up his wineglass again. _"People often do the most harm when they mean to the least,"_ he remarks.

That comment doesn't bode well. Doreshchenko contemplates his wineglass. _"You have powerful friends, Angelica, otherwise I would be more .... firm with you in getting answers. But I am aware that that would not be wise, so I ask you, in a friendly way, Why the questions?"_

The "powerful friends" is no doubt Mycroft -- but Doreshchenko used the plural, not singular ... less definite, it probably means that he doesn't know who my powerful ally is. It's going to stay that way, too, but it might not matter; if Mycroft operates mainly in the shadows like I think he does, then his name alone would carry very little weight, except amongst the right people.

In any case, I'm glad that the _pakhan_ isn't going to be more firm with me. I much prefer the VIP treatment.

How should I play this? Well, what if I don't "play" it at all? After all, the most effective lie is the one closest to the truth ... Maybe I can tell him something akin to the truth, just editing out things better left unsaid.

_"Mr. Doreshchenko, I really am sorry to have alarmed you. My friend Steen mentioned you, and I was curious about such a strange nickname as Pigman, so I asked Mr. McCutcheon why you were called that, but he didn't really answer me."_

Now, that doesn't tell Doreshchenko anything more than McCutcheon would've already told him, but it sounds very candid -- of course, candor is different from honesty, but most people don't notice that.

 _"Yes,"_ the massive head nods, " _yes, these are things that I have heard already."_ Okay, so he notices the difference. _"What I need to know, Angelica, is why your friend Mr. Dijkstra named me at all. And what else he may have told you about our business dealings."_

Now, there's a new one; Steen was doing business with this bloke? Maybe through McCutcheon? Lestrade said that this gang specialized in transportation, and Mycroft said that Steen was mixed up in drug trafficking, so Doreshchenko must be branching out...?

I shake my head. _"No, he didn't mention you in relation to any business dealings, Mr. Doreshchenko; he just mentioned the nickname in passing...."_

 _"I see."_ I can't tell if he believes me or not; this man is almost as hard to read as Mycroft! " _I am sorry, Angelica, but I am doubting you. You see, the nature of my business dealings with Dijkstra were such that I don't think he would have mentioned me to you without very good reason. Very good reason."_ He fixes me with those small, sharp eyes again, and it's like being pinned to a specimen mount. " _What reason?_ "

If he connects me with Steen and the book, then I'm in deep trouble. He obviously knows that Steen is dead -- he said "business dealings were" -- and if he is the one who had Steen killed, and he suspects that I have the book, then I'm toast. Powerful allies or no. I don't trust my ability to lie convincingly enough, so ....

 _"The reason was, that he wanted me to give a book to you ..."_ the Russian's eyes narrow just a trifle, _"But I gave it to the police instead."_ There, I went and said it, I really hope I'm not screwing anything up by telling him that.

Doreshchenko's face is expressionless, but he hums softly to himself for a moment. _"Hmmmm. Hmmm. I wish you hadn't done that, Angelica. That makes things difficult in many ways, many... but as your Winston Churchill said, 'Success is not final, failure is not fatal.' "_

 _"That's a good quote, I don't think I've heard it before,"_ I tell him. _"And I don't take any pleasure in having made things difficult for you, Mr. Doreshchenko. I just didn't know what else to do. Steen was in a panic and didn't explain anything to me, so I had nothing to go on. I did what I thought was best."_

He nods his huge head again. _"Please tell me, if you will, how did you come by the book, and exactly what did you do with it?"_ I briefly relate to him how Steen dropped it off at my flat, and how he later called and left a message for me to take it to the Pigman, and how I went to McCutcheon to find out who that was, but then decided to hand it over to the police instead. I leave Lestrade and Sherlock out of it completely, but the story is close enough to the truth that I'm sure I am being convincing.

 _"And whom at Scotland Yard did you give it to?"_ The _pakhan_ swirls the wine in his glass and watches me carefully with his glittering little eyes.

I make a show of draining the last of my wine. Men always assume that a woman will get tipsy on a single glass, but they forget to account for my height and mass; it's a closely-guarded secret, but I weigh over twelve stone, and it takes more than a teeny half-glass of red to even come close to getting me pissed. But it might be good for this bloke to think otherwise, so I relax my posture a little, and slow my speech just a tad. _"I dunno. A uniformed constable took the book, and put it into one of those plastic bag thingees, and took a report from me, and that was it. I don't remember his name."_ In the nick of time, I stop myself from manufacturing a description of the fictitious constable; only lies have details.

Instead, I stop and give the _pakhan_ a vacuous smile, and set my empty glass carefully down on the coffee table. He continues to finger the stem of his wineglass, and contemplate me. _"You haven't asked me what was in the book,"_ he finally says. _"Aren't you curious about it?"_

 _"Well, of course I am, but I didn't think you would tell me, so I didn't bother to ask."_ Damn, this bloke is sharp. I guess you don't get to be boss without having a bit of brain. There is a long silence, and I finally giggle, _"So, are you going to tell me what was in it?"_

His thick lips curl into a smile, half-hidden by the short bristles of his beard. _"No, I'm not. It's best that you not know."_

_I shrug. "Okay. It's probably a super-secret gangster-stuff anyway, and I don't really want to get involved in any of that."_

_"No, you do not. However,"_ the Russian raises his heavy eyebrows speculatively, _"Mr. McCutcheon did mention that there were some other things that you seemed interested in getting involved in ... although he thought maybe you were not so sincere about that...?"_ Doreshchenko doesn't bother to hide the suspicion in his voice.

Bloody McCutcheon again. _"No! I mean, yes, I am interested in making some extra cash on the side."_

_"There are ways for a talented, sincere young lady to make quite a bit of extra money. We have many customers who would like to buy our products, and too few distributors to satisfy them."_

Good lord, he's offering me to become a drug dealer! _"You mean, a distributor like Evan McCutcheon?"_

_"Of a sort. Mr. McCutcheon sees to a wide territory; you would only be taking care of a select few persons, but I am sure that amongst your current clientele you have a few individuals who would enjoy using our products, yes? And who could afford well-made, guaranteed products?"_

_"Made where?"_ Let's see what I can get out of him for useful information. _"My clients are very discriminating, and they would want to know where their products are coming from, and exactly what they contain."_

He shakes his head. _"The proof, as you English like to say, is in the pudding. The quality of our goods speak for themselves. You would only have to give a small free sample out for any of your customers to agree. I guarantee they will come back to you for more..."_

_"I don't have the capital to be handing out freebies, Mr. Doreshchenko. I'm just a working girl ...."_

_"I think you will call me Sacha now, hmm? And, you're an Agency girl, my dear,"_ he adds _, "That means you have some special skills, and attract a certain level of clientele. It will be worthwhile to supply you with a few samples, until you begin taking regular orders, eh?"_ The _pakhan_ smiles at me toothily. God, I can't believe I'm doing this, but if I can get evidence of drug trafficking going on here, then I can turn it over to Lestrade and maybe help get these murdering bastards nailed.

The sofa creaks loudly as the Russian leans his bulk over to set his now-empty glass beside mine on the coffee table. _"But perhaps it's not such a good thing for you to get something for nothing, is it? It would put you too much in my debt, that wouldn't be a good way for us to begin. So, Angelica, I propose a trade. A barter."_

 _"What sort of barter do you have in mind, Sacha?"_ I ask, although I've got a pretty good idea where this is going -- and I'm not looking forward to it.

 _"Well,"_ he says, _"payment can take many forms. I'm sure you can think of a little something."_

 _"I can think of many somethings, more than most girls,"_ I purr.

 _"Many somethings? That's very interesting to me. More than most girls, eh?"_ He gives me a lascivious smile and sprawls his bulk back slightly, arms resting wide on top of the back of the sofa. _"Why don't you tell me about a few of your somethings, hmmm? I would like to hear about them."_

Ah, tell him about it. He probably likes girls to talk dirty to him, maybe even talk about sex more than doing sex. That sort of client is pretty easy to satisfy, as long as you can spin an interesting narrative. I should be able to win Sacha's confidence without even pushing the boundaries of my contract with Mycroft, a nice bonus.

I lower my voice down into a husky, intimate tone _. "Oh, I have some very, very hot somethings I can tell you about, Sacha."_ I quickly check in my skirt pocket for a handkerchief as I slide closer across the leather sofa, under the curve of his arm. He smells of strong musky cologne, and stronger cigar smoke, but it's tolerable. At least he's clean. I rest my chin lightly on his shoulder, and breath softly into his ear, _"Let me tell you about the time last autumn, when I met another woman and two men at Stoke Park for a weekend. Have you ever been there? It's a beautiful place, with very big beds ..."_

As I recount for him that long weekend of creative orgy, I trace my fingers slowly up his thigh, circling closer to the bulge under the fine fabric of his expensive trousers. It takes a little doing to tease the zipper down, because of the overhang from his enormous gut, but in the end I've got it, and slipped my hand inside. He moans slightly and adjusts his hips so that I can reach further and fondle all of him, and for good measure he slides the hand nearest me down off the back of the sofa, up my thigh, and wriggles his thick fingers into my knickers, twitching them now and again as he slides a finger inside. I allow it, because that's all he's getting.

He's slow to get fully aroused, probably not in the best of health and not exactly young, so it takes some time and some fancy finger-work on my part to get him really going. His breath and subtle muscle movements tell me that he especially enjoys hearing the parts of my story that involve bondage work, so I continue telling him in lavish detail about various tie-up jobs that I've ever done over the past year, and tossing in a few that other girls have told me for good measure.

At first I have to stop and discreetly spit on my palm every now and then for lube, but after a few minutes he's aroused enough to be slick on his own, and I know then that it's time to pull the oldest dirty trick in the whore's book of dirty tricks.

I stop. I pull my hand out from between his legs, and stop talking in mid-sentence, and scoot away from him slightly. Sacha opens his eyes and asks, _"What is wrong? Why do you stop?"_

_"I think I'm getting tired, Sacha. I think I need some more encouragement, so I'll have the strength to keep going."_

The names he calls me, in Russian and several other languages, are all variations on "evil whoring bitch;" some of them are quite imaginative. He ends with, _"I could have you killed, you know, just like that."_ He snaps his thick fingers and glares at me angrily.

 _"You could, but I have faith that you are much more intelligent than that."_ I give him a friendly smile. _"So--"_

I slide back over to him, and creep my hand back along his thigh, teasing. _"--so, I only want to know, where does the product I am going to be selling for you come from? There has been a lot of rubbish coming out of Eastern Europe these days, people are wary -- Hell, *I'm* wary of where the stuff is coming from. I need to know, in order to do a good job of selling. You want me to do a good job, don't you....?"_

He lets out a great huff, like a steam engine in an old film, and gives in. _"Fine, woman, you win! I was going to tell you anyway! We have our own facility, south of the city --"_

Before he's done speaking, I wriggle my hand back into his trousers and take up where I left off, and then some, making him gasp with pleasure and surprise. _"I didn't quite catch that. What did you say, Sacha?"_ Like I hoped, he's so distracted now that he gives me far more information than he meant to, and in a stream of jumbled English and Russian he tells me the manufacture is in the basement of a legitimate chemist's shop in Bromley, that most raw materials come through contacts in the Netherlands, and for love of god don't stop please don't stop what you're doing right now --!

With a smile, I return to recounting my erotic adventures in restraints. The only problem is, I'm nearly out of stories, and I can tell Sacha isn't quite close enough to coming yet to bring him on home without something good. Reluctantly, I start recounting some of my sessions with Mycroft, leaving out any names or details, of course. I'm not happy about describing those encounters to the Russian, it feels a little nasty, but I tell myself it's for a good cause and plunge on ahead.

When I get to the one where I'm bent double under Mycroft, eye to eye, and he's buried to the hilts in my arse, Sacha finally goes over the edge. He pants and groans and bellows like a bull, finally collapsing back against the sofa cushions, completely spent. I employ my hanky quickly to clean up, and lob the soiled thing into the bin I spotted under an end-table.

 _"I'll be back in a tick,"_ I say cheerfully, and leave him sprawled like a beached whale whilst I go in search of soap and water.

Off the sitting room I find a small loo, as opulent as the rest of the suite. I take my time to wash up and fix my hair and makeup. When I emerge, Sacha is sitting behind his desk once more, looking relaxed and composed. And happy. I didn't realize that he looked unhappy when I came in, and now he seems almost care-free. Amazing sometimes what a little decent sex will do for a man.

I take a seat at one of the armchairs in front of the desk. Sacha puts his hands behind his head, leaning back in his fancy office-chair until the swivel shrieks an objection, and favors me with a broad grin. _"You have exceptional talent, Angelica."_

I smile demurely, and tell him that he is too kind, too kind.

 _"And you are a daring businesswoman ...you are wasted in your current occupation, you know. You could go very far working for the right people."_ The _pakhan_ leans forward now, his elbows on his desk, glittering dark eyes fixed on my face. _"You are young yet, and need more training, but you have potential. You could do very well for yourself. I would be willing to take on your training."_

I bet you would, you dirty bastard. " _Well, thank you very much,"_ I say. Why is everyone, for one reason or another, trying to talk me out of my current line of work?

_"Think about it, my dear, think about it."_

I nod mutely and look down as if I'm slightly embarrassed. Actually, I'm slightly appalled. I've just been offered a job in the Russian mob. Oh, if Daddy could see me now! But I've got solid information now about what they're doing and where they're doing it; and if Sacha comes through with the samples, I'll have physical evidence as well.

 _"Now, since you have kept your end of our bargain, I shall keep mine."_ Sacha unlocks a drawer of the desk and pulls out three pill vials, setting them down in front of me. _"They are labeled with the contents, and the prices; you will see I have been generous with my part of the deal! When you have given these out, and established who is interested in more, go and see Mr. McCutcheon. He will give you further instructions. Although, after that, I might prefer to have you come and deal with me personally. More pleasant that way."_  With another grin, he picks up a mobile phone from his desk and sends a brief text. _"I will have Dimitri return you right to the nest that he plucked you from, eh?"_

Impulsively, before Dimitri can get here, I say, _"Sacha, there is just one more thing I really need to know."_

He frowns. _"You ask too many questions, Angelica."_

_"Why DO they call you the Pigman?"_

Doreshchenko's face relaxes, and his eyes disappear into his round cheeks as he chuckles. _"There was a time when I needed to become feared, to be a man of reckoning. So I hired my cousin Sergei to keep a herd of pigs specially for me, and to keep them very hungry. I only had to use them a few times, and it became known that I was not to be underestimated, you see? Reputation is all, you cannot be effective in anything without reputation. If you have the right reputation with the right people, you needn't actually do anything to be effective."_

Reputation. I wonder if Mycroft ever had the equivalent of a herd of hungry pigs?


	17. "Women are like teabags. We don't know our own strength until we find ourselves in hot water."     ~ Eleanor Roosevelt

Dimitri looks frankly curious when he comes in, answering Sacha's summons. His impossibly blue eyes narrow in speculation at me, perched calmly on the armchair in front of the massive desk. I do my Mona Lisa impression whilst Sacha instructs him to take me back to the exact spot where he found me. " _Yes, pakhan,_ " the ginger nods.

The smile that Sacha Doreshchenko gives me as he tells me it was a pleasure doing business is fairly slimy; the smile that I give him as I say the same is not even remotely sincere. Still, I got what I came here for, a few more pieces of the puzzle.

Dimitri escorts me back to the car, texting on his phone the whole time. I'm distracted as well, mulling over what I've learned. _Oh, god, Steen!_ I really wanted to believe that Mycroft was exaggerating about Steen's involvement in drug-running, I really wanted to think that he was just an innocent bystander in all this, but he obviously was up to his little pink ears in it. No wonder he didn't want me to go to the police!

The little black two-door is still parked down by the loading dock, and we both get in silently. Dimitri finally puts his phone away, and we sit there for a moment looking at each other. He breaks the silence hesitantly. _"Is anyone expecting you this evening? Would it matter if we went straight back, or could we take a more scenic way?"_ And he smiles at me shyly. Oh, help me, the man has dimples. Really adorable dimples. And he gives me a conspiratorial wink.

I knew it! I knew he fancied me, I could feel the vibe. Damn it, though, I really shouldn't. I mean, I am under contract, and it's obvious that it matters to Mycroft that I honor that. What I did with Doreshchenko doesn't really count -- I don't know if Mycroft would agree, but in my world, a hand-job doesn't even count as sex. I'd still charge for it, of course, but it's not really sex. Besides, it wasn't for fun, it was necessary, and the information I got in return was definitely worth it.

But a romp with Dimitri would be purely for fun ... and I can't believe that I'm lusting after someone who just a little while ago threatened me with a gun and kidnapped me, and who might be my friend's murderer; I wonder sometimes what is wrong with me.

Slowly, I shake my head. _"Dimitri, I -- I'm ... not really available..."_

He looks disappointed, and starts up the car. _"Well, couldn't you just go with me for dinner? I'd like for us to talk some more."_

Talk some more? That counts as doing more research, doesn't it? Like, I might be able to gain some useful information from him, and at least find out if he had anything to do with what happened to Steen. And I'm sure I can at least go out to a restaurant without Mycroft getting miffed _. "You know, I would like that, and I'm sure it would be fine to just have dinner. It would have to be just dinner, though, you understand? Nothing more."_

I expect that he will ask me what the deal is, but he doesn't. Maybe he already knows, or maybe he doesn't care. He just nods and says, _"That's fine. I'll take you someplace nice, to make up for being not so nice earlier, eh? We just have to stop in and see a friend of mine for a minute first, though, okay? I have parcel for him."_

I agree, then settle back in my seat and we chat away; Dimitri is quite talkative now, and so I work the conversation around to his job. I ask how he likes working in this _bratva_. He keeps his eyes glued to the road, since we are driving in heavy traffic, but I'm taken aback by the vehemence of his reply. _"It bloody sucks! They're a pack of idiots, and not one of us gets paid enough. London is fucking expensive place to live, you know? It's not Moskva. We should get more pay for living abroad, but no --_ " he cuts himself off mid-rant, and glances over at me out of the corner of his eye.

_"Hey,_ " I reassure him, _"it's okay to vent. Everybody has to bitch about their job sometimes, nothing is perfect."_ But Dimitri just shakes his head and won't say anything more, and we drive on in silence. This is one moody bloke! I guess he's just living up to the stereotype.

I don't recognize the exit we take off the motorway, and I forgot to look at the signs, so I really don't know which derelict neighborhood we are cruising through when we stop behind some huge falling-down brick building. The alleyway is dim, the late afternoon sun leaving long shadows from the buildings crowding either side. Dimitri gives me a dimpled grin and gets out, telling me to wait here, he'll be right back. After he's gone, flip down the visor to check myself in the mirror, fussing with a stray bit of fringe that won't behave. I also sternly remind myself that I have to behave, and not let myself get carried away ....

A few minutes later, I flip up the visor to see Dimitri leaving the shabby brick building, followed by two men. He points to the car -- to me!-- and the two men walk purposefully toward me. What the hell? One of them reaches for the door handle -- so I lock the door before he can open it. As he pounds on the window, shouting, the other one runs toward the other side of the car. I reach across and lock that door as well, and start digging in my handbag frantically for my phone. I unlock the screen as Dimitri jams in the key to open the door beside me, and I shove my elbow down on the knob, preventing it from popping up and unlocking the door. Dimitri tries a few times, then shouts at me, pounding the glass with his fist.

My hands are shaking so badly that it takes a few tries, but finally I've got my contacts screen up, and hit the entry that I put in for MH, the number Mycroft left me last night on my other phone. One of the other men yells to Dimitri from the driver's side to toss him the key, and I have to juggle my phone as I flop my body across the seats to jam the lock on that side. The phone rings and rings. I'm almost sobbing with fear, and I know I should have called Inspector Lestrade instead. Mycroft won't pick it up, he doesn't even know what number this is! I keep hitting redial anyway.

It goes on like some crazy game of keep-away, with them tossing the keys back and forth, until they fake me out by not tossing, and Dimitri manages to get the passenger door unlocked and open. As he is grabbing for my legs to pull me out, I think I hear my phone click like it's been answered, although I can't tell for certain. I start screaming my head off anyway, kicking like a mule. I feel the chunky heel of my boot contact something with a satisfying wet crunch, and there's a blood-curdling scream to match my own.

Then, two more sets of strong, rough hands grab my ankles, dragging me out of the car, and I instinctively grab onto anything and everything to keep from being pulled out; my phone goes helter-skelter as I hang on for dear life, but all the kicking and twisting only delays the inevitable; I land with a painful thump on the ground, and the whack as the back of my head hits the asphalt stuns me for a few breaths.

One of the men reaches down and grabs me by the hair on the top of my head, sinking his fist into it to haul me up, and I lunge onto my feet. His grip hurts like hell, and I scream like a banshee, standing slightly bowed down because I'm taller than the miserable little sawed-off bastard can reach. The other two men capture my flailing arms and savagely pin them behind me, and I feel the thin band of a plastic zip tie being jerked tight around my wrists, binding them together and cutting painfully into my skin.

I'm still slightly stunned by the impact of hitting the ground, so I still myself for a moment to catch my breath and my bearings. The runt still has hold of my hair, although now that I'm not struggling it doesn't hurt so much, and I can at least think straight.

I turn my head sideways to see what's going on around me, and there's Dimitri in front of the car, holding a bloody rag to his streaming nose, with the other man counting out money to him. They haggle over something for a moment, then Dimitri gets one more bill. He takes the rag away from his swelling nose and looks at the amount of blood soaking it, gives a venomous look towards me, then he climbs into the black coupe and roars off.

Bloody dirty double-dealing bastard. I hope I shattered his face, but he didn't seem to be in enough pain for that, unfortunately. The man who paid Dimitri comes over, and I size him and the other one up, deciding that there is very little chance that I could take on both of them at once with any hope of winning. They are both broad and muscular -- and my hands are tied.

Calculating, I stop struggling, in order to save my energy and keep from getting hurt. The one who has my hair lets go of it when his mate takes hold of my arm, and takes hold of my other arm instead. Secured between them, the two thugs frog-march me inside the shabby brick building.

Hair-puller, the shorter one, huffs in Russian as they drag me in, "That was something, seeing Dimitri get bashed in the face! You sure this one is really a girl? What use is she, anyway?"

The other just laughs, "The same use as any whore, fool, although if Mica were only wanting her for that, I don't think he would've paid so much. Dimitri said she knows important people, she might have good information, something Mica can use." I guess I've been sold to a rival gang, and dimpled Dimitri is a traitorous swine. I hope to hell that Doreshchenko finds out and kills him very unpleasantly; if I survive this, I might ask to help.

The inside of the building is the same as the outside, only it's smellier; I don't think everyone who works here is house-broken. We go through a small maze of hallways festooned with peeling paint and water-stains, and up several flights of stairs to finally stop before a guarded door -- only one guard here, though. Smaller payroll.

One of the thugs holding me raps on the door, and a man's voice inside rumbles out something affirmative. The guard opens it, and the two men holding me drag me into their boss's office, much smaller and far shabbier than the one I just left. Lestrade said that each _bratva_ specializes as a way to avoid competition; Doreshchenko supposedly specialized in transportation, and now I wonder what this one specializes in? Whatever it is, they either haven't been at it as long, or they're not as good. This bunch doesn't seem to be as prosperous, or maybe they're just lower down on the food chain.

The leader, I think they called him Mica, is also sitting behind a desk when I'm brought in, but there the resemblance to Sacha ends. It's a small desk, cluttered to overflowing with piles of papers and file folders. This man is a little younger than Doreshchenko, and he wears his dark hair quite a lot longer, his face sporting a sparse and carefully groomed little beard just on his chin. He's thin to the point of being weedy, with a tense, nervous air about him.

He looks up at me, tapping a pencil on the dirty blotter on his desk as he slowly closes an open folder, and the muscles under one eye twitch a little. " _Govoretya po russky?_ " he abruptly asks, standing up. Do you speak Russian, he's asked. What a stupid question. Why would anyone answer that honestly? I shrug, and say _"What? I don't know what you're saying. Listen to me, I don't know what you want, but I have friends who will notice that I've gone missing and come looking for me! You really want to be letting me go!"_

Mica laughs with a distinct lack of humor, and tells me in English, _"I don't think we have anything to worry about, not really. Who are your friends, anyway?"_

I stop and think a moment. I don't think that naming Mycroft to these people would be any help at all, but there are others _. "Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade. He's a close friend."_

_"A detective? With the mighty Met?"_ Mica looks at the thugs holding me and they share a laugh. _"No, I don't think it will worry me. Not at all."_ He steps in front of me, crossing his arms and leaning his hip casually against the desk behind him. He is dressed in a cheap navy-blue suit, no tie, and his shirt is open at the collar to spill out the abundant brown curls on his chest. Tacky.

He looks me up and down, then reaches out and off-handedly squeezes one of my breasts, like he's checking for ripeness. _"Nice. The fat old bastard does have good taste, I'll grant you that. But he didn't have you brought just to help him find his dick, did he?"_

I make no answer, or movement at all. I'm trying furiously to figure out my best strategy for staying alive and getting out of here that way. If Mycroft got a fix on my phone, then help might be on the way, or it might not. In any case, I have to act as if I am on my own.

This bloke is much less well-established than Doreshchenko, but probably ambitious, and clever enough to plant one of his men in a rival organization....and I realize with a shock that they are not planning to let me out of here alive. If they did, they would compromise the safety of their well-placed agent, Dimitri; they would be crazy to let me go. Every choice I make now, every word I say, is life-or-death. This is for real, and the terror of it squeezes me so hard I almost can't breathe.

The silence stretches out a little, and I realize that they're waiting for me to say something. _"He wanted to talk to me,"_ I blurt out.

_"About what?"_

_"I'd been asking questions about him ... asking the wrong people, and he got nervous, needed to make sure I was harmless --"_ I have to stop, because I'm on the verge of breaking down and begging him to please not hurt me, I don't know anything, I'm nobody. That would just be humiliating, and probably not help at all. I swallow the lump in my throat, and carry on _. "Look, I knew somebody who mentioned the Pigman, and so I was at Verge the other night and asked Evan McCutcheon who that was, because it was such a funny name, right? And McCutcheon got all paranoid and told Doreshchenko that I had been asking questions ...so Doreshchenko wanted to see what I was about. So he talked to me. So that's all. What ...why am I here? What do you want?"_ I do break down a little bit there and it's not an act. I sniffle mightily, wishing I could wipe my nose, but my hands are behind my back in that damned uncomfortable zip tie.

Mica nods in mock sympathy, and speaks over my choked-back sobs. _"You must be very scared right now, eh? Strange men dragging you out of cars ...I understand. If you tell me everything I want to know, then we'll put you on the next bus home tonight. If not, well ..."_ he shrugs, and contrives to look very sad. _"Your friend the policeman will be very unhappy and miss you very much. So it's better if you tell us everything."_

_"But I don't know anything, about anybody! I just heard a name, that's all, and asked ..."_

Mica starts to reply, but there is a chime from his pocket. He pulls out a phone and looks at it, frowning, then answers and listens intently to an excited voice on the other end for a moment. His face contorts in anger and he replies in rapid-fire Russian that I can't follow at all, but he's clearly annoyed. He ends the call and turns to the men still holding my arms. He points to Hair-puller, and tells him, _"You, come with me. You,"_ he points to the other one, _"Yuri, you stay with her, here. I'll be back as soon as I get this little problem straightened out. Won't take long."_

Yuri closes the door behind them and pushes me down into a chair, taking another one beside it, and settles in to wait. I glance over at him, wondering how I can turn this to my advantage. This Yuri is the larger of the two who dragged me from the car, and he looks and acts tough. I don't think I could take him on, especially with my hands tied behind my back. There are other ways to handle a man, though. I lick my lips.

_"Yuri,"_ I say in a low, intimate voice _, "That's the Slavic version of George, isn't it? But I like the sound of it better than George._ " I pause, and Yuri slowly turns his head to look at me, but there's no expression at all on his face. I have nothing to lose, so I keep going. _"I'm called Angel. You know, this is going to sound crazy, but this just reminds me so much of a fantasy I always have, you know, where I'm kind of tied up and a really good-looking guy takes advantage of me, like, I don't know, like makes me give him a blow-job or something."_ I give him my best lips-parted porn-star look, and writhe subtly.

Yuri just shakes his head. " _I'd sooner stick my khuy in a rat-hole, it'd be safer! Besides, my wife wouldn't like it."_ He snorts a laugh and turns away again.

Damn. I shift my arms around to ease the pressure on my wrists, and look around the room for anything at all that I can use. There is a window over there, covered with tattered drapes and the remains of some mini-blinds; we only went up two flights of stairs -- would I survive a drop out of a second-storey window? How far down is that, anyway? But the window is obviously closed, and Yuri could definitely stop me before I managed to get it open.

I sigh, and keep looking. The desk that we are sitting in front of is actually pretty intriguing, because of the heaps of files and papers cluttering it up. I can see receipts, and photographs, and one thing that looks like a handwritten note that has been torn up and taped back together again. I'm itching to have a snoop through that midden and see what I might find....

There is a commotion outside the door, loud and almost hysterical. Yuri gets an alarmed look on his scarred face, rises and opens the door. Outside, it looks like the guard is arguing with another man, and Yuri joins in. They are so excited and talking so fast, though, that I can hardly tell what they are saying. There is a fight of some sort, and the men are debating if they should stay or run. Is it my cavalry arriving? I feel a burst of hope. God, I hope Mycroft sent some help! I have a momentary vision of an umbrella-wielding Mycroft leading a charge on Russian gangsters, but then I realize how silly that is. He's not that kind of bad-ass.

Whatever the source of the disturbance, it's got all three of them totally spooked. One gets a text message, and reads it to the others; it sounds like they are under attack by a rival gang, retaliation in an ongoing war. I'm not being rescued, then; my stomach sinks in disappointment.

One of the thugs finally throws his hands into the air and storms off. Yuri and the remaining man look at each other, and Yuri seems to reach a decision; he takes one last look at me, sitting there with my hands behind me, and he shuts the door without another word. I hear footsteps retreating down the hall.

I don't know for sure what's going on, but I'm not going to waste this opportunity. I immediately kneel down on the floor and work my arms down over my hips and legs until my bound wrists are in front of me, and not behind. Now I'm just a tiny bit less helpless, and I go to the desk and start rummaging through drawers as best I can for a scissors or a knife or anything that I can use to cut the zip tie binding my wrists.

Nothing. I do find a letter opener, obviously a souvenir from somebody's travels in Canada because it's got "Discover Quebec!" written in large letters on the metal handle, but it's duller than a butter-knife, and it's useless against the tough plastic of the zip tie.

My search for something to free my hands halts when I notice a photo spilling out of a fat folder amidst the other clutter on the desk. It's a very _interesting_ photo, with tangle of naked bodies in some very interesting positions ...that's some pretty kinky stuff, there, even by my standards ... I pull the photo further out, and get quite a surprise. That's Calypso! I have to admire her ability to look classy and self-contained, even in that undignified of a pose. She was a consummate pro, that woman. There's a man's face clearly visible too, and I know that man from somewhere, but I'm not sure where .... I pull the photo the rest of the way out, and when I see the whole scene a wave of sick washes over me; there's a young girl in the middle of all that, too young, and Calypso and the man are ...

Stop it, Angelica, no time to waste in snooping. I've got to break this damn zip tie. I try gnawing it with my teeth, but it's going to take forever to get through that plastic. I have a brain-wave then, remembering something that I saw on the internet once about escaping from one of these.

I can't believe that I'm going to trust my life to something I read once on the internet, but what have I got to lose? I run through the steps in my head, and reality-test them for a moment. The theory seems sound, and won't leave me much worse off if it doesn't work. Sitting down again in the chair, I take the loose end of the zip in my teeth and pull the thing as tight as it can go, digging painfully into the skin of my wrists and just about cutting off the circulation. Then, I start banging my wrists on the point of my knee, at the boniest part. I bring the zip tie down as hard as I can, over and over, in hopes of breaking off the strong but brittle tab that holds the thing together.

My wrists are on fire, and my hands are starting to go numb before I get just the right angle and force, and the zip pops open! I pull it the rest of the way off, and massage my poor wrists for a moment. Free! Now to get the hell out of here before they come back. And then it slams into my mind where I've seen that bloke in the photo with Calypso and ... the other one. Him! Oh, that cannot be good.

I slide back behind the desk and riffle through the folder. There are a few more photos of naked bodies, which I refuse to look at closely, and some very interesting copies of letters and emails. Mycroft needs to see this, in the worst way. I grab what I can, shoving the photos and papers into my pockets and inside my shirt.

I grab several more random handfuls of paperwork and documents from other piles that look interesting for good measure, then I force myself to leave off snooping and start looking for a way out. I run to the window, but when I push the half-broken mini-blinds aside to have a look, it's clear that the filthy glass panes have been painted shut and won't slide for love nor money. No exit that way -- breaking the glass would bring the guard, if there still is one. Better to take him by surprise, on my own terms. I go to the door, and press my ear against it. No sound, but that doesn't mean a thing.

Well, no time like the present. Before I can lose my nerve, I yank open the door, stepping through it in a fighting stance just in case there are any takers.

There are, but fortunately only one. He spins around when the door opens, and lunges toward me in an instinctive grab, but I'm ready for it; I capture his forward wrist with a hard jerk, helping him to go further off-balance, and smash him in the face with an inelegant but effective knee to the nose on his way down.

He's out cold in a spreading pool of blood, and possibly dead from that hard of a facial blow, but I'm surprised to realize that I really could care less. Which way is out? I know that I'm not thinking with a very clear head -- the adrenaline is making my head pound and my stomach churn in rhythm -- so I trust in my instincts and just go.

Just going lands me in a stairwell, going down. Down is good, because we we went up to go in. Exit here? No, I can faintly hear sounds of men shouting, and pops of what might be gunfire. Not good. Down more.

Another two flights of stairs, and I know I'm lower than ground floor, but it's quiet out there. I come out of the stairwell, sticking my head out cautiously. No sound. Okay, there's nobody around, but now what? I don't even have the subconscious memory of passing this way, so how the hell am I supposed to know which way to safety? It's not well-lit down here, the fluorescent strips in the ceiling are spotty, with tubes either flickering or completely dark, and it smells dank and mouldy. I step slowly and try to keep my footfalls from echoing on the bare concrete floor.

I hear a voice then, murmuring like a man talking to himself; someone talking on a phone, obviously. It's coming from ahead of me, and I look around for someplace to hide. There's a doorway beside me that's recessed into the wall a little, and under a dead lighting strip; I duck into it, feeling behind me for the door-handle, but finding it locked I just press myself as far into the shadows as possible, and hold my breath. The man's voice comes louder, and closer, his brisk footsteps echoing all around me.

_"Da! Da, okay! Paka."_

One man, alone, and he's looking down at his mobile and either thumbing another call or a text; either way, he's not looking at me yet, but all he has to do is glance up and he's going to see me. So I strike first, with a quick, vicious kick and a blow to the head -- and I'm horrified to realize as I'm doing it that I involuntarily give a loud _kiai_ that echoes through the corridors! Bugger it, this is not the bloody dojo, Angelica! I can't afford to be yelling like that.

Loud or quiet, my attack drops the man flat on the floor, and I give him another hard boot to the back of the head to make sure he's going to stay that way a bit longer. Not very sporting, kicking a down man, but this is not a game of honor; I have no doubt that I'm fighting for my life here.

Looking at him in the dim light, I realize that this is Hair-puller, so I check in his pockets and, sure enough, find a small fistful of zip ties -- ha, revenge! I zip his hands behind him, and his ankles as well for good measure, and pocket his phone.

Now, where to? I need to call for help, but I think I need to get out of here first. Back the way that Hair-puller came from might mean running into more searchers, so I go the opposite way.

Finally, turning a corner I spot a familiar green sign with the running stick-man and an arrow pointing up. That doorway leads to a small side exit, and an outside sunken stairwell up to street level. The relief I feel when I swing the door open and stagger out of that rank building brings tears to my eyes. I close the door quietly behind me and cautiously go up one step at a time.

It's later than I thought it would be, although it's not dark yet. This side of the building is deserted -- actually, the whole lane here looks deserted, although I have no idea where I am in relation to the door that Dimitri delivered me to. It's quiet, too. No shouting or activity, no police cars or CO19 squad ... I'm on my own, just as I thought. Either my attempt to call Mycroft didn't go through, or he didn't take it seriously. Never mind.

I lean against the building, still in the shelter of the stairwell, and catch my breath. I need to get clear of this place, in case they start looking for me outside, and I need to put in a call to Lestrade. At the very least, I need a ride back home. I just want to go home.

Staying in the growing shadows, I skirt around the derelict buildings and pick my way down the back-alley around mounds of trash and fallen brick rubble. I am so incredibly grateful that I wore these boots with their sturdy square heels today, and not something with wobbly little spikes. I would either be running barefoot by now, or laid up with a broken ankle.

When I get to the end of the block of buildings, I cut over on a cross-alley toward the main road where I see a bit of traffic passing by. I stop in a sheltered doorway under a street lamp that is just flickering on, and pull out Hair-puller's phone to place a call to Lestrade -- but then a police car cruises by slowly, and I run out to flag them down instead.

I identify myself to the constables inside, and, when they flash each other a triumphant grin I suddenly feel a spasm of doubt, remembering how it went the last time I went to the police for refuge! But I remind myself that this is different, and calmly get in the back seat when they ask me to. The constable who's driving checks in with me to see if I need medical attention; when I answer no, she tells me that they've been looking for me, and they're very pleased to find me safe. The whole time the other one is talking quietly on the radio, receiving instructions of some kind.

I'm still a little nervous. _"Where are you taking me now?"_ I ask as they fire up the lights on the roof and pull out into traffic.

_"We've been instructed to meet your transport at the police station in Bromley, and they will take you to your debriefing,"_ the constable who was on the radio tells me. He looks over back of his seat and gives me a genuine smile _. "It's an honor, Miss. It's not often we get to rub elbows with you Secret Service types. We're glad to help out."_

Whoo-hoo, Secret Service types. Looks like maybe Mycroft got my phone call after all, but his people weren't exactly much help in getting me out of there, were they?

I wonder where the debriefing will be -- at Mycroft's Whitehall offices? Someplace else? I have a flutter in the pit of my stomach when I think about it; how angry is he going to be at me for getting into all this trouble today? For any of it to make sense, I'm going to have to tell him about the book and giving it to Lestrade -- and about the trips to the hospital to talk to Sherlock, too. Maybe all that will be balanced out when I tell him what I learned from Doreshchenko, and show him the stuff that I nicked from Mica's office. I hope.

Meanwhile, the two constables are genuinely pleased to be the ones to have found and extracted me; they keep asking questions about "the operation" followed quickly by, "Of course, you probably can't talk about that, can you?" So I just smile a lot and shake my head in a "no comment" sort of way, and try to look glamorous and mysterious instead of how I feel, grimy and exhausted. Basking in their admiration, it occurs to me that I could get used to this.

The Bromley station of the Metropolitan Police is a shiny new building on a quiet dead-end; there is a jet-black Jaguar saloon parked out front, and it doesn't take any guesses to know who it's for. The constable pulls us up behind it, and as I get out, the door opens on the Jag and Arm-hauler gets out! I've never been so glad to see one of Mycroft's suited goons, ever. I have to restrain the urge to run over and hug him.

Getting out of the squad car, I give my thanks again to the two constables that picked me up, and the driver says again that she is very pleased that they found me safe, and good luck. I saunter over to the Jag.

_"Well, I never thought that I would be so glad to see you as I am right now! Let's go."_

Without a word, Arm-hauler opens the back door of the car for me, so that's where I get in, although he's the only other person in it. Even though I have a million questions, I don't feel like trying to pry answers out of this bloke, so we ride in silence toward the city centre. It takes a while to get to the government district. By the time we do, I'm actually dozing off a little.

Where we pull up is not on Whitehall, although it's still in the district; it's a very posh, pillared establishment. I am suddenly very aware that I must look a sight -- I'm wearing rumpled and dirty clothes from this morning, my makeup is probably smeared across my face, and my hair is a rat's nest. I have blood --not mine! -- on my knee, and I smell like sweat and fear.

_"Umm, is there any place that I could freshen up?"_ I ask Arm-hauler. He doesn't take the car to the front entrance, but wheels around to the side, parking behind another, identical black car in front of an unmarked fire-exit door.

_"There's a loo in the entry,"_ he remarks as we get out; I follow him to the plain metal door, and realize that it's got a card-reader installed beside it, with a tiny red light flashing. The man takes a security card out of his breast pocket, swipes it, the light flashes green with a click someplace, and he opens the door for me, pocketing his card again.

This is so cool I can hardly stand it -- I'm going into a secret government installation of some sort! The inside is sleek and modern, and screams efficiency. Just inside, Arm-hauler waves me toward a plain wooden door with the expected label on it, and I gratefully dodge inside to tidy myself up.

The lights flicker on as I enter, to reveal more sleek-and-modern decor, if you could call such utilitarian effect decor. I stare at myself in the mirror above the stainless-steel sink and gasp. Oh, my god. The last time I looked this bad was when I went to a fancy-dress party as a zombie -- and it took two hours of makeup and a whole can of hairspray to get the effect. I can't believe I was walking around and smiling at people looking like this. How embarrassing!

I stopper the sink and run the hot tap, taking a quick wee whilst the water fills the basin. No paper towels, so I have to use toilet paper as a washcloth, and god only knows what that hand soap is going to do to my skin, but finally the raccoon-rings are scrubbed from around my eyes and cheeks. After I blow my hands dry under the air-dryer, I use my fingers to comb and fluff my hair, since my toilet kit is lost along with my handbag -- and my wallet, bugger it! All that was in the car that Dimitri took off in.

I pause a moment in exasperation. I hadn't thought about that. Bloody hell. My e-reader was in there, too, and my charge cards. I'm going to have to straighten it all out tomorrow, although I should call in the credit card as soon as I can, god only knows what that ginger wanker will do with it. He's probably maxxed it out already and considered it an additional tip! Son of a bitch. I hope his nose is really, really ugly now, and heals crooked.

Well, nothing for it at the moment. I tidy up my clothes as best I can; I can't help the fact that I desperately need a shower, but I can at least tuck my shirt in properly and straighten my leather skirt. All the photos and documents I nicked from Mica's desk make quite a wad, so I make a little parcel of it to carry instead of keeping it stuffed in my clothes.

There. That's as good as it gets. As I come out, Arm-hauler glances at his wristwatch and raises an eyebrow at me. I give him a big smile. _"Thank you for waiting. It was worse than I thought!"_

He just shakes his head, looking a little amused, and says, _"This way, please."_ As I follow him down the narrow, brightly-lit corridor, I wonder what he and Mycroft's other PAs think of me. They have to know that I'm an escort, their boss's little indiscretion on the side, but now, fetching me from Bromley, taking me here -- doesn't he wonder? I would, in his position. I'd be desperate to know what was really going on, just because. But Arm-hauler shows no sign of curiosity, or anything other than bland professionalism.

The door we stop in front of looks identical to all the others we've just passed; there's no name on it, just a number: 9. It's opened for me, then closed behind me, and I'm alone, facing another door, one of thick metal that looks like it belongs on a bomb shelter or something, with this little square window in it. Peering in I can see a big, modern wooden desk, and the figure of a man in an impeccable grey suit casually leaning his hip against it, his arms crossed. I can't see the face, but I know who it is. I raise my hand to knock, and I hear him say, like he always does, _"Come in, Angel."_


	18. "The truth is rarely pure, and never simple." ~ Oscar Wilde

As I enter, and close the inner door behind me, my first thought is to wonder why on earth this office is so poorly lit; but there has to be a carefully-considered purpose, because Mycroft doesn't do anything without a purpose.

It's all shades of grey in here, with touches of red from the glowing wall sconces and the red phone on the desk -- it kind of reminds me of that grey suit he often wears, with the touches of red tie and pocket square. He's not wearing that one right now, though. He's wearing lighter grey, with blue...oh, the umbrella tie. I'm always surprised by that one.

I look last at his face, because I am afraid he's going to be angry. In fact, I've decided that he's probably going to be furious, and I'm in for a severe talking-to, at the very least. But he seems completely calm, not even cross. I'm confused, and smile at him uncertainly, _"Hey."_

 _"Well,"_ Mycroft says lazily, _"You have been busy, haven't you?_ " He looks pointedly at the sheaf of papers in my hand. _"What have you got for me there?"_

 _"Some very good stuff, I think, and some I'm not sure about ..."_ I hold the bundle out for him, he takes it and waves me into one of the chairs in front of his desk, going around to seat himself behind it. I guess I'm not really surprised that he doesn't ask how I am, or if I'm okay, or any of the other things that most people would say to someone who just survived a traumatic kidnapping. He just assumes that I'm fine, probably because he would be. And I'm breathing, and not bleeding all over the floor, so .... _"By the way, I'm fine."_

Mycroft is examining the sheaf of papers, without looking up at me, but says absently, _"Yes, I know, I have been listening to the police radio reports."_

What am I supposed to think of somebody who will listen in on endless police band chatter to hear word of my status, but won't even say, Hello, are you okay?

He shuffles through the photos I picked up, frowning, then stops dead at the picture of the man with Calypso. His eyebrows shoot up and stay there, as he contemplates the damning photo. _"Now, that is very disturbing, indeed,_ " he comments aridly. " _Where did you find this?"_

 _"On the desk of the leader they called Mica --"_ I begin.

Mycroft interrupts quickly, _"Not the pakhan Doreshchenko?"_

I shake my head. _"No, the second one. This bloke, Mica, wasn't a boss like Doreshchenko -- he didn't seem to be prosperous enough to be that senior. There were a lot of files with photographs on his desk, my guess is that bratva specializes in blackmail. I nicked these because I recognized him,"_ I lean over and tap the face of the man with the huge grey mustache.

Mycroft eyes me suspiciously. _"How do you know him? Has he been ... a client of yours?"_ he says reluctantly.

 _"No, I saw him chasing after you to talk a few times, a couple of weeks ago ... at Stoke Park, and Whitehall ..."_ I let it trail off and bite my lip, none too happy to be reminded of my clumsy attempts at stalking. I hope he doesn't mock me again about it.

" _Ah,_ " is all he says, and turns back to the photograph, wrinkling his nose in distaste this time _. "Not really surprising, but very disappointing,_ " he says, as if to himself. " _It's not so terribly hard to be discreet, you'd think he would put more effort into it. However, this does explain quite a lot about Cobb's actions lately, if this bratva has been blackmailing him."_ He seems quite pleased. _"Well done. I believe this will prove extremely useful."_

He leafs through the rest of the papers, and I decide it's a good time to ask him some questions, whilst he's still in a good mood _. "Mycroft, I need to know why -- well, you seem like you expected me to come here with intelligence for you, like you sent me out there on purpose or something...."_

He puts down the papers, and just sits there, with his hands folded under his chin, looking at me. Waiting. I blink furiously, and shake my head.

 _"No way. No bloody way. You really did send me to Doreshchenko on purpose? You -- you LET them take me?"_ He still hasn't answered, and his face hasn't even twitched. Bloody hell. _"But, how did you know Doreshchenko was going to abduct me? And why didn't you warn me?"_

 _"I knew because my staff reported that you were being followed by Doreshchenko's men, and after the questions you had been asking, it was only a matter of time until he arranged to interview you. I knew that your excessive curiosity would very likely lead you to finding out something useful, so I took steps to ensure that Doreshchenko wouldn't harm you, and,"_ he riffles his fingers in the air, _"let nature take it's course."_

We have a mini stare-down then, because I am staring at him in disbelief, and he is staring at me with a bemused expression that dares me to disbelieve him. But, what the fuck? If Mycroft had enough control over Doreshchenko to ensure that I wouldn't be harmed, why would there be any useful information for me to find? And why would you expect an untrained twenty-three-year-old to find it if there were? It doesn't add up.

I shake my head slowly, and say, _"Nope. Not buying it."_ But Mycroft's expression doesn't waver, and his eyes are steadier than mine. I don't think he loses stare-downs.

So I cheat and throw him a curve. _"But what about Dimitri selling me to Mica? Damn it, Mycroft they were going to torture and kill me! Did you know about that, too?"_

He drops his eyes and shuffles the pile of photos and papers again, avoiding my outrage. I got him on that one. Finally he answers reluctantly. _"No. No, I didn't foresee that. I didn't know that Doreshchenko had a double agent in his organization. If it's any consolation, he no longer does. And, we recovered your belongings from the car."_

Well, that is some consolation. I hope Dimitri is one sorry pup right now. _"So, you got my call?"_

" _Of course, and we responded immediately."_

_"Responded how? I didn't see a cavalry or anything!"_

Mycroft huffs at me. _"Cavalry. A bit obvious, don't you think? No, I sent over an attack by a rival gang, and then the police once it was clear that you had already escaped on your own."_

So that disturbance that distracted Mica and his men, that was a rescue operation after all, of a sort. Since he's in a question-answering mood, I ask some more. _"How did you know that I had been asking questions about Doreshchenko?"_

He rests his chin on his fingers again. _"You told me, Angel,_ " he says with the merest trace of a smile.

 _"Oh, right."_ I feel a slight flush creep up my cheeks. I wonder what else I told him that night that I don't remember, but I doubt that he's in that much of a question-answering mood.

I try for an answer to something else that's been bothering me. _"Why have you been having me followed? Was it like that from the first, or what?"_

_"No, I didn't deem it necessary until you and your Australian were attacked. Then it seemed prudent, as I'm sure you'll agree."_

_"Prudent, yes._ " I sigh and rub my forehead. I am feeling a wave of weariness again. I really just want to go home and eat something and crash out, but I don't want to admit how tired I am.

_"Now, perhaps you'll indulge me in a few questions as well, if you please."_

_"Sure."_

He reaches into his desk, and draws out a phone, my old one, and places it carefully on the desk between us. " _You seem to be acquiring mobile phones at an alarming rate. We located this one riding around in a taxi cab. The driver claimed it had been left behind accidentally this morning. However, there is also this one,"_ he pulls out another mobile, my new one, and sets it beside the first, _"recovered from the car in which you were abducted. It seems to be registered to your sister, although it is programmed with numbers she doesn't call,"_ his soft voice suddenly hardens at the edges. _"Such as that of Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade, whom you seem to have been phoning quite frequently in the past four days. And, if I am not mistaken, there is yet another mobile in your left pocket right now."_

I reach down and pull out the phone I took from the Russian thug, and toss it on Mycroft's desk. _"This one I grabbed off of one of Mica's men that I took down, to use to call for help. I ended up not using it, because a police cruiser spotted me first."_

 _"Ah."_ Mycroft steeples his fingers against his mouth, and contemplates my two phones, then me. _"I told you that the investigation had to be closed, Angel, and I have very good reasons for doing so. You have created difficulties by disregarding that."_

_"I didn't do it just for giggles, Mycroft. I had very good reasons as well, but I didn't think you'd listen to me. I had to get The Torch to Lestrade ..."_

Mycroft's eyes fly open wide, and his eyebrows arch high in surprise. " _The torch? What have you had to do with the torch?"_ he says sharply.

 _"I had it,_ " I say simply. _"Steen passed it along to me, before they killed him-- "_

Mycroft's palms are pressed flat on his desk, and he is looking at me with consternation. _"Tell me about this torch that you think you had, Angel. Describe it to me, and please be specific."_

 _"The Torch is a book, a paperback book,"_ I see him frown fiercely, and I pause, but he motions me to continue. _"I don't know how Steen got it, but he had it, and that is what those men that attacked us at his flat were after. He gave it to me for safekeeping, and called later and left a message telling me I had to get it to the Pigman, that's why I had to talk to McCutcheon and ask questions, to try and find this Pigman ... didn't I tell you this, if I told you about McCutcheon?"_

Mycroft sighs and shakes his head. " _You prattled on about a book, but I assumed it was a notebook of your Australian's drug-dealing contacts, which would also have been of interest to Doreshchenko. We know of "the torch" as a codeword for an ...extremely valuable document ..."_

_"Right! The document is a micro-card embedded in the spine of a book called The Torch!"_

_"And it was in your possession?"_ he sounds incredulous, then closes his eyes and huffs in exasperation at the ceiling. _"Of course. That horrid romance novel you had in the sitting room. Thick Soviet-era glue bindings. Of course. How could I have missed it?"_

 _"Because you weren't looking for it. You were probably too busy being appalled at my taste in literature."_ That gets a flick of an eyebrow from him, and I know I'm right. " _You didn't know that Steen had it, so why would you think that I did?"_

_"Where is the micro-card now?"_

_"Inspector Lestrade had it as of this afternoon, although I think he was going to turn it over to the Met's counter-terrorism unit. Part of the information is encoded, though, and they'll be looking for the codebook now ..."_

_"So you have seen the contents of the micro-card? Has Lestrade?"_

_"No, but Sherlock --"_

_"Sherlock?"_

It's an interesting thing about Mycroft's voice, when he's talking to me. It seems that the angrier he gets, the softer his already soft voice becomes, and the less he moves his already stilled lips. By that barometer, he is livid right now. _"Please do continue."_

I swallow some dryness from my mouth. _"Sherlock was the one who found the card, and he said that it's a compilation of laboratory notes from a black-market chemist. Some of the formulas are for designer drugs, but some are for bio-terrorist weapons. The formulas themselves are in some sort of code, and Sherlock said that in order to break it, the codebook would have to be found .."_

Mycroft presses the palms of his hands over his face for a moment, leaning on his elbows. Still holding his head and not looking at me, he says, _"Please tell me that this is hearsay from Lestrade. Please tell me that you didn't go to the hospital."_

_"This is hearsay from Lestrade. I didn't go to the hospital"_

He glances up with a stop-the-bullshit look, and I shrug. _"Well, you asked nicely!"_ I sigh. _"Okay. Lestrade took me to speak with Sherlock. Twice."_

Mycroft rears back in his chair with a pained look _. "Angel!"_ he groans. His brows are drawn together tightly, the furrow deep between. _"Why are you doing this to me?"_

Good lord, what a martyr complex! _"I'm not trying to do anything to you at all. It's just how this has played out ..."_ I say defensively. _"Honestly, I don't lie awake nights thinking of new ways to make your life difficult, I really don't."_

 _"It might be better if you did -- you might have a little less success at it then!"_ I glare at him hard, and he glares back. " _This puts me in an extremely awkward position, Angel, and it was completely unnecessary. Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade has quite a bit to answer for."_

Poor Lestrade! I try to spin it a little on his behalf. " _To be fair, I think that Sherlock insisted on interviewing me about the case, it wasn't all the Inspector's idea."_

 _"Lestrade brought the case to him, after I'd expressly forbidden it. He deliberately disobeyed me, and there will be consequences --"_ Oh, that lordly attitude again! And poor Lestrade, he's only trying to do his job. Mycroft isn't being fair.

 _"Who are you to be ordering him around? I don't think you're in his chain of command, Mycroft. And Sherlock seemed competent enough to make decisions for himself -- he didn't jump out of bed and go charging around endangering himself, although he seemed to relish the challenge of something new to work on."_ Mycroft continues to glare. Well, he's good and angry at me now, may as well go for broke. I owe it to Lestrade.

_"I think you are totally irrational, when it comes to Sherlock."_

His frown morphs into a look of icy contempt. _"Please don't be so stupid, it's annoying. I am NEVER irrational,"_ he states flatly.

Now I'm furious as well. _"What kind of bullshit is that? Do you honestly believe that you're NEVER irrational? I could describe a quite few examples to the contrary, and calling it irrational behavior would be kind. Or have you forgotten who you are talking to, here?"_

He presses his lips into a thin line, and looks away. I guess he actually had forgotten.

The silence stretches out for a while. Looking at one of the softly glowing wall sconces, Mycroft says quietly, _"I suppose you might have a point. I suppose I am not always rational. Or even civilized."_ He frowns at the sconce, then his face twists briefly with loathing. I seem to have hit him harder than I meant to.

 _"I don't judge, Mycroft, I never have. It's not in my nature,"_ I reassure him softly. I'd like to tell him that he has nothing to be ashamed of, that on the scale of possible human weirdnesses, his hardly register at all. But I don't know if that would be much help -- sometimes, telling someone that they have nothing to be ashamed of only draws attention to their shame. Sometimes it's best to simply leave it alone.

 _"No, you don't judge, do you?"_ he turns his face toward me again, eyes searching mine. _"I considered that a significant character flaw at first, but now I'm not so certain."_

Nice to know he can change his mind. _"People are what they are,"_ I give him a wry smile. _"You're a people, too -- much as you resent it. You make a lousy robot."_ He gives me a look that I think tries to seem more affronted than he actually is.

Then his face and posture change, and he visibly shifts into professional mode, closing the door on the personal stuff with a snap. _"We were already aware of the contents of the torch document; the imperative was only to locate it and keep it out of the wrong hands. The source has already been dealt with."_ It's like he rewinds to the earlier part of the conversation! _"What other intelligence were you able to obtain?"_

It takes me a few beats to catch up, and even then I'm not ready to let go of the personal stuff. _"I might have a lead on who murdered Steen --_ " I begin, but Mycroft interrupts me.

 _"I have already deduced that, beyond any doubt,"_ he says, smugly.

_"What? When?"_

_"Yesterday afternoon, if you must know. I did the legwork myself."_ He says this as if he deserves a medal or something, but I just stare at him. So, he didn't send Steen's body off to prevent an investigation; he had already completed his own investigation.

_"What did you find out? Who was it?"_

Mycroft frowns and shakes his head. _"No. There's no need for you to know at present."_

_"Why not?"_

_"The matter is not open for discussion, Angel. I only brought it up so you would stop obsessing about trying to solve the case. It's solved. Done, ended, fini."_

_"So, are you going to take your information to the police for them to follow up?"_

_"NO,"_ he responds, the single syllable dripping with contempt. " _Why would I do a useless thing like that?"_

_"Oh, I don't know ... maybe so the killers could get what's coming to them? So they won't be able to kill anyone else? Something like that?"_

He closes his eyes and shakes his head mock-wearily at me. _"Your naivete is breathtaking sometimes. The constabulary are very well-meaning, but generally ineffectual in something like this."_

 _"So, you're not going to do anything? Those bastards are getting away with it?_ " I'm incredulous, and outraged.

 _"I didn't say that,"_ Mycroft answers sharply. _"I have my own ways and means, Angel. The matter will be seen to. That's all you need to know."_

_"And I'm just supposed to leave it all up to you?"_

_"Yes."_

I look at him searchingly for a moment, and find that I believe him; I think he's telling the truth that he will see to this in his own way. _"Okay,_ " I nod, and repeat,  _"Okay."_ He looks relieved, and starts gathering up the documents and photos on his desk, putting them into an envelope.

 _"Was there anything else of note?"_ he asks brusquely; his eyes flick to the right pocket of my skirt -- how the hell does he _know?_

 _"Yes. I learned from Doreshchenko that his organization is also manufacturing grey-area drugs locally, with materials imported via the Netherlands. I know the location of his lab, too, and the front for it ..."_ I feel in the right front pocket of my skirt, and pull out the three little vials that Doreshchenko gave me, the ones Mycroft was waiting for me to tell him about. _"He recruited me to sell for him, and gave me these samples. McCutcheon is supposed to be my contact with him, although he said that later on he would deal with me directly. He also offered me a job."_

Mycroft listens with interest, picks up one of the vials and examines the label. Then he frowns at me, looking a little grim. _"Doreshchenko is a businessman, Angel. You obviously impressed him, but even so, he wouldn't have given you that information for free, not something that important. How did you win his confidence? What did he ask for in return?"_

I was afraid of this. " _Just a small service, really. No big deal."_

Mycroft looks concerned, and presses further. _"I need to know, Angel, what information or service he wheedled out of you. It might seem insignificant to you, but it could be very significant indeed, potentially dangerous. Now, what did you give Doreshchenko in exchange for the information about his drug enterprises?"_

_"A handjob."_

Mycroft gives me a blank stare. _"I beg your pardon?"_

 _"A handjob. Basically, he gave me the information in exchange for a handjob."_ I give him my best forthright you-asked-for-it stare right back.

The pained look, complete with vertical furrow between his brows, is back once more. _"Was that really necessary?"_

 _"Well, I thought the information was worth it, so yes, I do think it was necessary."_ I thrust out my chin a little, defiantly. I can tell that the more he thinks about it, he's less nonplussed and more angry.

_"Do I have to remind you once again that you are under contract with me? That was hardly a life-or-death situation, it didn't warrant breaking the terms of our agreement, did it?"_

_"I didn't break contract. A handjob isn't sex."_

_"What --? No, I'm not going to ...quibble with you over semantics. Just understand that *I* consider it such, and please have the courtesy to respect my preference,"_ he says tersely.

 _"I'm sorry. I didn't know."_ I say earnestly, and that seems to mollify him a little. He hesitates a moment, his mouth tensing to a tight line.

_"Did he ... touch you?"_

_"Sexually, you mean?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Well, I guess he fingered me, a little ...."_

Mycroft's expression doesn't change, but his jaw tightens, the muscles on the sides bulging out briefly as his teeth clench together. Oh, he certainly doesn't like to share his toys. _"And did you respond to that?_ " his tone is suddenly so pleasant and light, he might be asking about the weather.

I know what he's getting at. " _No! Eeww, it wasn't like that, not at all. I didn't get anything out of it."_

 _"I see."_ And then, snap, he's back to business mode again. _"I'll be wanting a full report from you on the entire operation, from the abduction to your escape, and include in detail all information about illegal activities and locations of such. Email it as an attachment here,"_ he jots down an addy on a sticky note and hands it to me, along with my two mobile phones and a slightly admonishing look. _"Within the next twenty-four hours, please."_

It's making me a little dizzy, this shuttling between the personal and professional. _"Right, okay, one report coming up."_ I pause, feeling kind of confused. _"Mycroft, this feels very, well, official. I mean, filing a report? That's not exactly escort work, is it?"_

 _"Well,"_ he sounds resigned, _"Since it seems impossible to keep you out of things, you may as well be in them in a controlled fashion, rather than as a loose cannon. Wouldn't you agree?"_ I nod silently, not really knowing what to say. He's right, I guess.

Mycroft rises and opens the inner door for me. _"I will still be seeing you tomorrow evening, at half past eight."_

 _"Yes, sir,"_ seems the only possible response.

Leaving Room 9, I find Arm-hauler waiting for me in the corridor. He nods to me, then turns and heads back down the way we came, obviously wanting me to follow. It's very dark now outside, and looks like it might rain again, surprise, surprise. My handbag is waiting for me in the car, and when I check it I find all my things still in there, including cash and cards; I assume that Mycroft's people got to Dimitri before he could do anything, so I don't need to worry about calling in the cards.

When we are almost to the flat, I make Arm-hauler stop at the neighborhood takeaway so I can rush in and get some food; I can't remember if there's anything to eat at home or not, and I'm famished.

When I climb back in the saloon, clutching soggy sacks of steaming goodness that are making my mouth water, I tell him, _"Thanks so much for stopping--_ " and I realize that I really can't keep calling him 'Arm-hauler.' That's kind of a silly way to refer to him, but we are a bit past first introductions, as well. _"Um, I don't know your name ..."_

 _"Davies,"_ he says, pulling up to the kerb in front of the blue door.

 _"Talbot,_ " I reply, gathering my parcels and bag.

_"I know."_

I give him a quick smile in the rearview as I get out. I'm not exactly sure what shifted, but there is a different vibe from him now. It's hard to believe that just a few weeks ago this guy was chasing me across London and shoving me around in handcuffs with a snarl. Maybe it's just me, though.

Once inside the flat, it feels unbelievably good to at last strip off those vinyl boots, although the stink from my feet being encased in plastic for an entire day is also unbelievable. I take a good look at the tears and scuffs on the shiny black toes, and toss them straightaway into the bin. Plastic isn't like leather, you can't salvage it after a hard day. Quickly I strip off the rest of my clothes, grab my sacks of takeaway, and make for the tub.

Immersed in warm water up to my shoulders and picking away at a container of moo-shu with chopsticks, I am in bliss, absolute bliss. My god, what a day. How the hell am I going to write a report for Mycroft about it all? I don't know the first thing about writing operative reports. I guess I'll just wing it.

Funny how little fibs have a way sometimes of becoming the truth when you least expect it. I told Lestrade and John Watson both that I work for Mycroft gathering intelligence -- and here I am, doing just that, only I had no idea that is what I was doing. I feel like I actually did something useful; Mycroft was very pleased to have evidence that the grey-mustache bloke, Cobb, was being blackmailed. Who knows what situations that little bit of information averted?

And being treated like a Secret Service rock star by those cops, that was pretty sweet. I felt a little like a fake at the time, but I guess I really wasn't a fake at all. I put the takeaway on the floor, and let myself sink a little further down, dunking my shoulders in the steaming water and lolling my head back, carefully avoiding the tender lump on the back from where I hit the ground. I don't think I'll be sore tomorrow, but I sure am going to sleep well tonight ....

I'm jolted out of my half-doze by my old mobile's ring-tone, from the bedside table where I put both phones. I'm not going to leap out of the tub to answer that, although it's a little odd for someone to be calling this late. A minute of silence later, and my new mobile starts to ring.

It has to be Sara, she's the only one with both numbers --oh, or possibly Mycroft, although he just saw me so it's less likely to be him. The new mobile rings for a while and then stops as well. I should go and see what it is, in case there's something important, and I should get out of the tub in any case before I fall completely asleep and drown or something. I do a quick washing-up and go check my phones.

It was Sara, and I feel a small pang of guilt when I realize that she's called me half a dozen times today. I haven't talked to her for four days, which is a long time for us.

I call her back, and the conversation is stunningly lackluster.

_"Hey."_

_"Hey. How are you?"_

_"Fine. You?"_

_"Fine. Anything new?"_

_"Not really."_ I don't feel like talking about Steen's murder, international intrigue, getting kidnapped, or my new work responsibilities just yet. _"Same old shite. You_?"

_"Same. You in bed?"_

_"Almost."_

_"Me, too. Later, okay?"_

_"Yeah, later."_

I hang up, and look at the call timer. Twenty seconds. That's probably a new record for us. I sigh and get ready to turn in. I'm still cross with her for making me move out, she's probably cross with me for making her feel guilty. Such a functional family we are. Still, we're sisters, and I know beyond a doubt that we will patch it up sooner rather than later.

Lying in the middle of the big canopied bed, I think about Mycroft and Sherlock. Brothers. Mycroft's obviously a bit older, but they still grew up in the same family. Must have been quite a circus, with those two. I try to imagine what it might've been like, and I just can't wrap my head around it. Both so intense, so damned _right_  about everything. Competitive. But why does Mycroft feel so responsible for Sherlock? Sairs is sort of like that with me, but Mycroft has her beat six ways from Sunday in the over-controlling older sibling department. I kind of feel sorry for Sherlock; Mycroft would always have been a dozen steps ahead of him, and pulling everyone's strings at every opportunity, always in control, or making you believe that he is...I still can't believe that Mycroft _knew_  I was going to be kidnapped, and just let it play out...

I drift into sleep, dreaming of strings and puppets and a ginger werewolf....


	19. "The betrayal of trust carries a heavy taboo." ~ Aldrich Ames

I was wrong; I am very sore in the morning, but not as bad off as I could be, all things considered. Turns out that actual fighting is different from sparring -- who knew? It's probably being hauled out of the car by Dimitri's mates that did it. There are also some bruises and chafed skin from that damn zip tie they used on my wrists, and the back of my head is still more than a bit tender ...

No matter, I know I'll be right by evening. I roll out of bed with the determination to get that report out to Mycroft before lunch, so I won't have it hanging over my head all day. I'm a little spooked by it, to tell the truth. I wrote plenty of papers at uni, and I'm certainly not illiterate, but I know intimately what a perfectionist the man is -- I don't think I can impress him, but I can at least do a good job.

By afternoon I am ready to tear my hair out in frustration. I don't know what I'm doing, for god's sake! Everything I write down sounds wrong and stupid. In lieu of throwing my laptop across the room, I put on my running gear and go for a long run in the park, really pushing myself hard, until I'm gasping and sweating. The day is sunny and dry, and much, much warmer than yesterday. I push so hard I actually start to feel a little dizzy in the heat, and have to sit down on a bench and gulp from my water bottle, catching up my breath.

I fall to people-watching then, resting on the bench, especially two old men playing chess at a table under a big old oak tree. I've seen the same two blokes at the same table almost every time I'm here. They are always so into it! Solemn and intense, they play by the clock and rarely speak. Today I notice that every now and again a young person, usually a young man, will approach the chess-players. They stand and watch the game for a minute or two, then they will put some folded bills down on the table, like placing a bet or something, and one of the players -- the same one each time -- takes a small parcel out of a satchel at his feet, and places it on the chess-table. The young men take up the parcel, leaving the folded cash, and the player pockets the money. This is all done without the player looking up from his game, or breaking the rhythm of it.

So, is this a drugs deal I'm seeing? Very possibly, although they're casual enough that it's probably not a high-stakes one. The thing is, I've been running in this park almost every day since Mycroft moved me into the flat here. I've sat on this bench, and watched those oldies playing chess how many times? And I never noticed that there was money changing hands before, or parcels being taken up. How much else is going on in this city, right under my nose, that I look at but don't take notice of?

I jog more slowly back to the flat than I went out, thinking about perception. I've never been one much for picking things apart, judging them against some standard -- like I told Mycroft, I don't judge. I've always been a little proud of that, because all Daddy did was judge, all the time. He had the most suspicious mind you can imagine -- he could never give it a rest, and it could be horrible being around him at times because of it -- but it made him a good cop, one of the best. He just couldn't turn it off. Maybe, though, not being able to turn it off was the real problem.

If I'd been more willing to judge, more suspicious, maybe Dimitri wouldn't have fooled me. I came out of that all right, but it could easily have gone very, very badly.

Police and policing is still on my mind when I get back home to the flat and shower, and still when I sit down to work on the bloody report some more. Why not model it on a police report? I know what those look like, I used to read Daddy's paperwork for fun sometimes.

Once I have a template in mind, the thing flows smooth as silk, and I've got it done and emailed in less than two hours. I dig out a bottle of wine to have with the rest of the Chinese takeaway to celebrate, and hook my laptop into the stereo system so I can listen to some proper music for the occasion; I don't know what the neighbors think, but I am amazed how these old windows can rattle when the bass is cranked all the way up! I have to cut my one-woman party short when I realize that it's time to get ready for work: Hair, nails, makeup, and a girly new dress. I'm in such a good mood it's ridiculous, chilling upstairs with a little bit more of the wine, and some Lermontov -- I am loving me that Russian romantic poetry lately.

I hear Mycroft come in at precisely eight-thirty, of course. His movements down there are quiet, but I hear the clink of the glass decanter, and after a minute or two some classical music starts wafting quietly from the hidden speakers -- oh, good grief, it's those damned wailing Baroque violins again! Why on earth did he pick _that_ stuff? I down the rest of my wine with a grimace, wishing for something stronger to numb out my eardrums. Oh, well, it's just for a few hours.

I wait expectantly, but there is no soft tread on the stairs. Well, when he's ready for me, he'll come up. Patiently I flip to another poem and keep on reading.

After what seems like a very long time, finally I hear him calling me to come downstairs, please. That's different. What is going on?

I trot down to find him standing by the sofa, hands in pockets. He's already taken off his suit coat, and his shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow, an empty tumbler on the coffee table. He looks ready, but I don't know for what. Silently, I join him by the sofa, and wait. He just contemplates my face for a moment, frowning slightly. He raises a hand and delicately flicks a strand of my hair over where it should be, brushing a fingertip over my sensitive ear accidentally-on-purpose, making me blink. He bites his tongue briefly, looking over my shoulder.

 _"I'm very disappointed in you,_ " he says calmly. _"Very."_

He doesn't look it, he's not acting it, but when somebody who ruthlessly controls affect like Mycroft tells you they are feeling something, it's a good idea to take their word for it. My stomach sinks. I guess I did a shitty job on that report after all; well, damn it, what does he expect? I haven't had any training; I didn't even manage to graduate from uni, did I?

Don't jump to conclusions, Angelica; find out what the deal is first. I struggle to keep my voice even. _"Okay. What are you disappointed about?"_

He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly, still focussing over my shoulder and, apparently, addressing the wall behind me. _"We have a contract, an agreement. I thought that I could trust you to honor that, and I was wrong. That is extremely disappointing to me."_

He's upset because of the handjob I gave Doreshchenko? Still? _"But, I didn't realize you would think I was breaking the contract! It was an honest misunderstanding ..."_

 _"A convenient one, you mean."_ He goes over to the sideboard with his empty crystal tumbler and refills it. I wonder how many he's had already? I can't remember how much that decanter had in it earlier, I don't pay any attention to it.

_"No, I said what I meant. An honest mistake."_

He rounds on me, and the intensity of emotion in his face is a little scary. _"Well, which is it? A misunderstanding, or a mistake?"_ He bites the words off harshly. Oh, he is really, really angry at me.

Carefully, Angelica. _"Both,"_ I say softly. _"A misunderstanding, because I believed we had a common understanding and we didn't. A mistake, because I didn't think to check my assumptions. I'm sorry."_

He answers with an unpleasant huff and a curled lip, and enthrones himself in one of the armchairs. _"Sorry. Such an easy word to say, isn't it? But it doesn't change anything at all, does it? I've never understood why it makes such a difference to people."_

Well, I think, that certainly hasn't stopped you from using the word, has it? But that would only be a defensive counter-attack, and not helpful right now. _"Well, it's a start. It indicates a willingness to take responsibility, and to try to make amends."_

He pulls a face and looks away. Not ready for me to make amends yet, then; he needs to vent some more, but he's not going to do it willingly. Maybe the direct approach?

I perch on the padded arm of the sofa. _"I didn't mean to make you jealous, Mycroft."_

He leans forward, elbows on knees, and impales me with an icy stare _. "I do not wish to be cruel, but please don't flatter yourself,"_ he says slowly, deliberately. _"Jealousy would require that I be personally involved, and I'm not. I don't get involved. Not with you, not with anyone."_

I do not have any idea at all how to respond to that. It's obvious he absolutely believes that to be the truth, but it's not what I see at all -- and I don't think now is the time to argue about it. Maybe later, if there is a later.

 _"Okay,"_ I shrug, _"so you're not jealous. You're not involved. But you're still very upset. Why?"_

He turns the glass tumbler in his hands slowly, watching the light play on the faceted crystal and the amber liquid within. The baroque violins screech away quietly in the background.

 _"Trust,"_ he says finally, to the tumbler. _"Breach of trust. I trusted you, and you failed me."_

No more excuses. " _Yes, I guess I did."_ I resist the urge to say 'I'm sorry' again. _"That happens sometimes. Human error."_ And then, I impulsively add, _"And I trusted you, and you failed me, too."_

He glances up at me, then, and frowns deeply. _"Yes, I did, didn't I? That double agent, Dimitri --"_

_"-- nearly got me killed."_

His eyes are still fixed on the tumbler _. "You proved yourself beyond my expectations, Angel. You got yourself out of it."_

 _"I shouldn't have had to get myself out of it! You shouldn't have let them take me to begin with!"_ I give him an accusing look. _"I trusted you."_

 _"Maybe you shouldn't. As a matter of fact, I know you shouldn't."_ He drains the last of his drink, and leans back with an completely unreadable expression. He looks almost ... defiant? Like he's issued me a challenge.

 _"You know what? I know that."_ Inexplicably, I can feel my eyes pricking with tears _. "I know I shouldn't trust you, but I do anyway. That's really fucked up, isn't it?"_ I shake my head, and have to look away. I'm not completely sure what I'm feeling, but it's almost overwhelming. _"I just ... I think that you'll do whatever it takes to preserve the things you believe in, and I think that they're the same things that I believe in ... so maybe that's what I trust. Not that you'll do what's right, but what you think is necessary -- and not that you won't make mistakes, but that you'll make fewer than most."_

I glance up to see him contemplating the wall behind me, his face a still cipher. I let the silence stretch out between us, until finally Mycroft leans forward slowly and places the empty tumbler on the coffee table. _"What is necessary. Yes,"_ he says to the table, nodding. _"But, there is still --_ " he sighs, crosses his legs and twiddles briefly with the gold ring on his right hand. Feelings make him nervous.

 _“Still what?"_ I press.

Reluctantly, he begins, _“I am at a loss as to how to look at you now without thinking ….”_

I let him sit on that for a few moments, but it becomes clear he’s not going to finish the sentence; that would be too close to admitting what he isn’t going to admit.

Once again, I’m going to have to say it for him. _“I am guessing that when you look at me it’s hard not to imagine me with Doreshchenko, isn’t it?_ ” Mycroft’s face turns so stony, it would make granite look yielding in comparison. _“I’m guessing that, whether or not you want to, you might be thinking kind of obsessively about what exactly I did with him, and whether or not I –“_

 _“I simply cannot fathom how you could bring yourself to … that!”_ he bursts out, the stony façade broken by a surge of disgust. _“He is an obese, repulsive, slobbering fool, a tin-pot tyrant with delusions of aristocratic grandeur! How could you even –“_ he checks himself, swallowing down whatever invective was next. He adds, more quietly, _“I can hardly bear to look at you at the moment, much less entertain the thought of touching you myself.”_

Oh, good grief. Impure! Polluted! It would be SO much easier if he could just admit to being jealous, then we could have a big domestic and get on with things, but no, he has to make it SO bloody complicated. Do we call a priest, get an exorcism? I keep the sarcasm to myself, though, because somebody around here has to be mature. Patiently, I ask _“Is there anything I can do to change that? I’m willing to try whatever will help.”_

He thinks for a minute, then gets a funny glint in his eye. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or what, but he looks equal parts menacing and mischievous, and it makes me just a little bit nervous. _"There is something that occurs to me, that might, as you put it, make amends."_

 _"What is it?"_ I'm definitely feeling nervous.

 _"Well,"_ he says smoothly, _"since you granted something to him that rightfully belongs to me, it seems fair that you should grant it to me as well ...."_

_"You want a handjob?"_

_"In the same fashion, everything the same. A re-enactment, so to speak."_

Ah! Classic. He needs to take ownership of the betrayal by inserting himself into the scene. Very gestalt-therapy. _"I can do that. There's just one catch, though..._ " Mycroft gives me his 'I'm-listening' look. _"You'll have to let me touch you."_

Unconcerned, he simply shrugs, _"It's not a phobia; merely a preference."_

Hmm, privately, I think his no-touch rule is a little more than just a preference, but now is not the time to go there ... _"Okay, then, let's do it."_ I wave at the sofa. _"Sit down in the middle of it, like you own the entire world."_ Not a hard task for him, I should think. It flashes through my head that maybe one reason Mycroft dislikes Sacha Doreshchenko so much is that in some ways they are quite similar.

Mycroft sits down, legs sprawled comfortably, his arms on the back of the sofa. He looks up at me expectantly, still with a hard glint of anger in his eye, his jaw tight. This is going to be very tense and uncomfortable, at least at first.

Still feeling overly warm from my run, I've dressed in a fluttery sheer blue sun-dress with shoulder ties, and, for a change of pace, no bra or knickers. I chose it because I thought he might like to untie the shoulders and let it flutter down, but, 'The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men' as Burns said .... The full skirt of my dress proves awkward as I kneel on the sofa close beside Mycroft. He turns his face away to look straight ahead, but still watches me out of the corner of his eye as I settle myself in and arrange the folds of the skirt fabric around my knees.

 _"By the way,"_ he comments as I reach down toward his leg, _"I am aware of Doreshchenko's predilection for intimate discourse. I believe you would not have been silent?"_

I sigh inwardly. That's going to make it even worse, which is no doubt Mycroft's intent. " _Okay, you want a re-enactment, that's what you're getting,_ " I tell him.

Very cautiously, I place my hand on his knee, and rest my chin lightly on his shoulder; I can sense the tension in him like a coiled spring through the smooth, rich cloth, and I feel rather than hear his sharp intake of breath as I make contact. The muscles of his jaw clench and release again and again. I'm tempted to remind him that this is what he wanted, but that would be just chatter.

I inhale the scent of him for a second, appreciating the soap and cologne and warm musk. I remember when I thought that was overpowering; now it's kind of comforting. I draw a breath to begin, but Mycroft stops me again, turning his head slightly. _"Wasn't he touching you?"_

 _"Not yet, not at first. I'll let you know when."_ He nods slightly, turns his head back so my mouth is parked once more just inches from his ear.

Softly, I breathe into it, _"Let me tell you about the time last autumn, when I met another woman and two men at Stoke Park for a long weekend. Have you ever stayed there? It has lovely rooms, with very big beds ..."_

I elaborate this telling differently, since I have a fair idea of what Mycroft will like to hear, and I slowly tease my fingers along his thigh, circling higher and higher. When I reach the top, I'm a little disappointed to find that he's hardly aroused at all; funny how we can take that personally! I remind myself that submitting to being touched might take all the erotic juice out of an encounter for him, and adjust my expectations accordingly.

It's far, far easier to unzip his trousers than it was Doreshchenko's -- there's no massive gut overhang to get in the way, and Mycroft doesn't even have to shift around; he is still as a statue. I remember that the Russian slid his hand down between my legs about now, so I pause in my colourful recitation to take up Mycroft's wrist with my free hand, and guide his fingers downwards. I withdraw my hand when his fingertips reach the bare smoothness of my thighs, figuring that he will go where he wants to, but he interrupts me again to ask, _"Where?"_

 _"Hmm?"_ I'm a little preoccupied with keeping up my narrative, as well as worming my hand into the front of his trousers, so it takes me a beat to catch on. _"Oh, you mean, where did he put his hand?"_

Mycroft turns his head ever so slightly towards me, and nods.

 _"Well, I'll have to show you ..."_ and I reach down again to move his fingers around until it feels pretty much like I remember, one finger intruding slightly, the others curled into his palm. " _There, like that."_

 _"And like this?"_ he begins to rub my sensitive spots, like I taught him, and I squirm away slightly.

_"No! No, he didn't move anything at all, just sort of parked his finger in there and left it, some like to do that ..."_

_"Hmm,"_ is all he says, and is still. I go back to my narrative, making the story and details as hot as I can, and going on to the next one, just like I did with the Russian.

I manage to get a little more arousal going for Mycroft with my talented fingers, but I sense that it's a losing battle; whether he's inhibited by being touched, or is just fighting it, I don't know -- but it doesn't matter; this is about repairing things, not getting anybody's end away. Although, I am getting myself a little worked up; like I've said, it doesn't take much. I can feel the wetness sliding down the inside of my thighs, and his hand has got to be soaking.

Maybe because of that, he starts to move his fingers again, but just barely, the merest pulse and quiver. It sends shivers though me, and I'm quickly getting more aroused. My breath starts to catch just the tiniest bit, and deepens. I've reached the point to where I have to cast around in my memory for more erotic tales, and recall that that is when I pulled out on Doreshchenko. Right, re-enactment it is. Without warning, I pull out and away from Mycroft, and he looks at me questioningly.

 _"This is what I did to him,"_ I say with a shrug. 

_"Stopped in the middle of it?"_

_"And made him give me the rest of the information, then and there. And some more besides, actually. He told me much more than he meant to."_ I grin with grim satisfaction, and Mycroft nods, I think approvingly.

_"Effective. Was he annoyed?"_

_"Very. He called me a dirty whore in a dozen languages, I think."_

Mycroft looks thoughtful for a moment, but says, _"I believe I will spare you that."_

 _"Thank you!"_ I say sincerely. It didn't mean anything coming from Doreshchenko, but from Mycroft, especially in his present mood ...

I scoot back over to him, and pick up where I left off, but now I'm thinking furiously how to modify the ending of this little scenario. I don't want Mycroft to know that I described any of his escapades with me to Doreshchenko; that wouldn't help things at all, I don't think. So I'll bring the story I'm relating to a close, and say that the Russian went boom right there, and we'll see what comes next...

When I scooted back over, Mycroft put his hand back where it had been, but adjusted slightly. Now he begins to do just a little more than vibrate, making subtle, deep movements in all the right places. My breath catches more than a little, and I start to stumble over words and get more and more distracted. A familiar fire starts to build in my lower belly.

Damn him, he's going to completely turn this around on me, isn't he? Well, I offered 'Whatever you want;' and this is obviously what he wants. Before I abandon myself to his wicked hand, I swallow hard and whisper, _"He came about now, and then I went to the loo and cleaned up..."_

Mycroft doesn't stop what he's doing, but throttles it down to just a quiver, and turns his head to bore narrowed eyes into mine. _"I take it that you didn't describe any of your activities with me, then?"_

 _"No, of course I didn't -- urk!"_ You wouldn't think a tiny bit of flesh could hurt like that, but he's pinching very hard. I can't breathe, much less move.

 _"It's not the lying that I find offensive,"_ he remarks calmly. _"It's the insult to my intelligence. Please don't do it."_

Once again, the only possible response is, _"Yes, sir,"_ but this time I whisper it, painfully.

He releases the tender bit, and turns his ear toward me again. _"Now, continue. Truthfully."_

I swallow hard, and start in with it. I feel him stirring, finally, under my fingers as I launch into describing our encounters from my point of view; by the time I've gotten to narrating the first time here at this flat, he is rock-hard and trembling with my touch.

With a sudden, unexpected movement, he captures my wrist and pulls my hand away; I guess it was getting to be too much, or he doesn't want to take the chance of soiling his trousers. At any rate, he turns his body fully toward me, pushing my wrist back behind my hip as he moves closer. _"Don't stop,"_ he tells me. _"Keep on talking."_

I keep on with my narration, and as I do so Mycroft begins nibbling gently up and down my neck and ears, increasing the depth and tempo of his hand below. I abandon myself to it, barely able to keep my voice going or my thoughts at all coherent any more. He bends his head down and applies his teeth and lips gently to my taut nipples through the silk gauze of my dress, and I have to grip the back of the sofa with my free hand to keep from toppling over backwards. I'm almost at the point of no return, when --

\-- he backs everything off, all at once. Panting, I open my eyes to see him looking at me with a mocking little smile. I laugh out loud at him, _"You bastard! You filthy bastard!"_ Still laughing, I finish telling him, to his face and with great drama, the scene I had just been describing, finishing with, _"... 'and he was into my arse soo deep, I thought I could feel him hitting my bellybutton from the back' ...and that's when the fat bastard came, and THEN I --"_

But I don't get to finish the sentence; Mycroft begins brushing my lips with his, and his fingers are once more relentlessly moving me toward release. He kisses me more and more deeply as my climax builds, then as the waves take me and I arch from my knees, head back and shrieking, it's only his hand grasping my wrist at the small of my back that keeps me on the sofa at all.

I loll my head against the back of the sofa as I sink back down again, panting. I look up to see that same mocking, sardonic half-smile playing across his mouth, deep blue eyes no longer narrowed in anger, but not exactly gazing fondly, either. There is something fierce there I haven't seen before.

His hand is still parked between my legs, but not moving, until with a swift flick, he has hold of that tender bit once more, although this time not painfully. Just as a reminder.

 _"I dislike sharing,"_ he says emphatically. _"I hope I won't have to remind you again about the terms of our contract."_

I shake my head, No. _"You've made things pretty clear, I don't think I'll be getting it wrong again."_

 _"Good."_ He releases me, and lets go of my wrist as well. _"Now, I want you to go upstairs, and wait for me."_

I take a minute to go to the bathroom and freshen up a bit, and by the time I'm out, he's just hanging up his waistcoat on the valet. _"Come here, please."_ I saunter over, and he fixes me with that intense, fierce stare for a minute, then, like I thought he would, smiles slightly as he pulls the shoulder ties of my sun-dress and it flutters gracefully down around my ankles. He reaches out and cups my breasts with his hands, feeling them, rubbing his thumbs across the texture of the nipples. They're a nice shape, although not as big as I'd like. I envy the girls with round, full breasts, but not enough that I want to go under the knife for it.

Mycroft doesn't seem to mind, in any case. He fondles them, hefting the weight in his hands, bending his head now and again to suckle on one and the other. After a bit of this, he leisurely reaches down and retrieves the leather gear from the bag on the floor. Although he is as deliberate and careful as always, he straps the harness and ankle cuffs on me rather tightly tonight. When it comes to putting on the wrist cuffs, though, he examines the light bruises and chafed skin on my wrists first with a frown. _"Is this painful?"_ he asks, pressing gently. I shake my head, No, but he still straps my wrists quite loosely.

He has me lie on the bed, then, and as he starts guiding my limbs into position and clipping me into immobility, it's more like our first few times together than the most recent. When I am completely trussed and unable to stir more than a finger, he steps back to admire his handiwork, and goes to the silent valet to rapidly undress; I can hear him breathing, fast and a little ragged. No shaving tonight, he's too far gone. I wait, the screeching violins not exactly adding to the ambiance for me at this point.

When he joins me in under the bed's canopy, at least Mycroft has shed all of his clothes, and I can feel the hard press of him as he moves to make contact against me, skin to skin. He buries his face in my hair, inhaling deeply, then winds his fingers into it as he breathes roughly in my ear, _"What is mine, is mine, and for now you are mine. I look after what's mine."_ And then he's touching, fondling, tasting me, and I don't know whether that's the most romantic thing I've ever had anyone say to me, or the most terrifying. His for now -- but when he's done, what happens then? And, too, his idea of looking after someone ...

He is already tremendously aroused, and it isn't long before he is moving inside me, as deep and as hard as he can go. Since he's in my arse, and rather abruptly to boot, I've got my eyes closed, concentrating on relaxing so it won't be uncomfortable. I feel him cup the side of my face in his hand, and he breathes, _"Look at me! I need to see you --"_

No, I think, you need _me_ to see _you_ , but in any case, I turn my head and open my eyes, letting his gaze lock with mine as he clutches me tightly, one gigantic spasm after another silently wracking him until he is spent.

He rests there a long time, still buried in me, catching his breath and shivering slightly now and again. After a while, he raises up on one arm and showers my shoulders and throat with light kisses as he un-clips the restraints, freeing my limbs. This is new, I think, but I'm bloody well not going to call attention to it; I don't want him to stop.

When I'm unshackled and stretched out, Mycroft shifts around to spoon behind me, keeping himself still as deep in me as he can manage. He reaches around and down with one hand to stroke and pleasure me again, as the fingers of his other hand roll and lightly tweak my nipples. He's gently nibbling what he can reach of my ear, and, as I get more aroused and move myself against him, I can feel him growing thicker and harder again inside of me, moving in short, rolling thrusts. He is clearly aiming for a second round, and the Agency has rules about re-using condoms -- which I immediately decide don't apply to the present situation, thank you very much. This feels too delicious to stop.

I let him stay in charge, and he precisely times it so that we come together, both of us in shuddering gasps, writhing against one another. As we lie there afterward in an exhausted puddle, I realize that he has wrapped his arms around me, and my hands are clasped over his, our fingers lightly intertwined. _Yeah, you are so totally uninvolved, aren't you, Mycroft?_ I slide my fingers further between his, and pull him tighter against me. He runs his lips along the curve of my neck, then silently releases me and rolls off the bed.

Sated, I drift into sleep.

++++++++

I jerk awake suddenly, very disoriented; the flat is dark and completely quiet, and I have no idea what time it is. I experimentally call out, _"Mycroft?"_ but there's no answer. How long was I asleep? I rummage around in the bedside drawer for one of my phones and turn it on. The answer is ... about four hours. Well, Mr. Holmes is obviously long gone.

I'm still wearing my leather gear, so I strip that all off, put it away, and head for the bathroom. Even after a good, hot shower I still feel really strange, probably because I'm not used to going to sleep that early and then waking up in the middle of the night. I decide a nice cup of milky tea is what's needed, and head downstairs.

A few minutes later, I curl up with my steaming mug in the stillness of the darkened sitting room, illuminated only by one of the small spotlights in the kitchen. It's so quiet, I can even hear the distant, ever-present rumble of traffic from the nearest motorway.

I can't stop thinking about some of the things Mycroft said tonight -- _"You are mine for now. I look after what's mine."_ It makes me feel warm and happy, and cold and frightened, all the same time. And I literally can't stop thinking about it. Obviously, it plugs into something really deep and important for me.

Well, the pleasure of being claimed by someone that I see as having high status; that's biology, pure and simple. Then there's the ego-boost of being close to someone who isn't close to much of anybody. Right, so I feel chosen, special. _"I look after what's mine;"_ well, there's the assurance of safety, care-taking, even if it's a tad bit obsessive at times. What did John Watson call it? Maniacally overprotective? Something like that.

But _"Mine for now,"_ that's the part that gives me cold chills. I'm on the inside for now, but it seems to be inevitable that at some point, I'll be back on the outside again. Abandoned again ... Oh, yeah, there it is, eh? It's not so surprising that I would have abandonment issues, but I keep thinking I've dealt with them, and they keep coming back to haunt me.

The funny thing is, I am in full agreement that this is "for now." It's a good situation "for now," but I can't imagine a long-term relationship with somebody like Mycroft. He's so much _work_ , and you can't ever be sure what's really going on with him. I've even given up trying to tell if he's sincere or not, because I don't think the concept applies to him. Sincere implies acting in harmony with your true feelings, but he seems determined to keep his actions completely separate from his feelings -- so how can anything he does be sincere? He's the most insincere person I've ever met, and he would consider that a compliment, I think.

And he's clueless about his emotions half the time. I still can't believe that he can't see how jealous he is. _"Jealousy would require that I be personally involved, which I'm not."_ Ha! How can he be saying _"not personally involved"_ with one side of his mouth, and _"mine, mine, mine"_ with the other? I just don't get it. He's either massively in denial, or has a completely different definition than I do of those things,

With a sigh, I put my empty tea mug on the coffee table, beside Mycroft's cut-glass tumbler. Looking at the faceted crystal brings to mind what he said as he sat there turning it in his hands; _"You proved yourself beyond my expectations, you got yourself out."_ So, he wanted me to prove myself? That sounds like the real reason that he let Doreshchenko abduct me, as a test. Of what, I'm not sure, but the idea that it was a test makes more sense than his claim that I was sent to gather information. He didn't seem especially surprised by the news about Doreshchenko's hidden lab; if he already knew about it, that would help explain why he was so annoyed at what I exchanged for the information.

The obvious question is, why does he need to test me and let me prove myself? It would be so cool if he thought that I could be an agent or something, but I feel silly even thinking it. They only take the best and the brightest to train as agents, and that certainly isn't me. Still, there must be other things I could do ....

My head jerks up, and I realize that I am nodding off. Better go up and get some more sleep; the cleaners come to service the flat tomorrow morning, and I'll have to get up much earlier than I would like.


	20. "From caring comes courage."  ~Lao-Tzu, 'Tao Te Ching'

I have faith that my alarm went off when it was supposed to, but I don't remember it at all. When I realize how late it is and do get up, I'm in a rush, I'm behind already, so of course it gets worse -- my manager phones in to check on me, and I don't dare ignore the call. I haven't even been opening my email from her lately.

However, I won't give up on struggling mightily to get out and away before the cleaning crew arrives to service the flat. I don't know why I am so paranoid about avoiding them; maybe I'm afraid they'll put me to work cleaning the toilet or something! Whatever, I know I'm just being stupid. I take the call and juggle my mobile against my ear as I finish doing my hair.

 _"Angel, are you well? Is everything satisfactory?"_ I don't know how she manages to sound both detached and solicitous at the same time, like she could care less, but in a very kind way.

 _"Yes, ma'am."_ I pull aside the blinds to peer out one of the windows and check the weather outside. Looks like another hot one, a good day for a miniskirt and minimal everything else, if I can find something I want to wear. Why can't we just go naked? It would save so much agonized decision-making....

 _"Good. I had cause to wonder, because you haven't been answering your email, my dear! There have been some important announcements that you seem to have missed."_ She sounds a little accusatory.

 _"I've, ah, been a little busy, ma'am."_ Understatement.

 _"Oh?"_ There is a world of inquiry in that one syllable. _"I wouldn't have thought that Mr. Tate would be making many demands on you at all ... how are things going with him?"_

I feel like telling her to piss off, none of her business, but that wouldn't be a good idea, so I just concentrate on getting dressed and my makeup done.

When there's been a long enough pause to let her know that I'm not going to answer her unspoken questions, I ask, _"So, what are the important announcements? Is there anything that I need to take care of immediately?"_

 _"Yes, there is."_ Now she sounds terse and cross. _"Today is the last day for you to arrange to go and get that mandatory vaccination, Angel, and if you want to continue your employment, you need to at least have the appointment scheduled by the end of the day. Today."_

_"What vaccination?"_

_"For that nasty new hepatitis strain, haven't you been paying attention? We have been sending out email notices about it for weeks now! It won't take too much time out of your busy schedule to get one little jab, now, will it?"_

I ignore the sarcasm. _"No, ma'am, it won't."_

I settle with her what paperwork I'll have to send in, then start to call my usual doctor to make an appointment when a thought strikes me -- why not go to the surgery where John Watson works? He was a nice bloke, I wouldn't mind 'running into' him again -- and maybe I can get him to tell me if there's anything interesting going on with Sherlock, or news from Lestrade. I look up the number for that surgery, and find that I'm in luck; since it's just a jab, they can fit me in straight away, no problem. I arrange to be there in about an hour.

As I'm leaving the flat, thankfully still well before the cleaning crew is due, I notice a homeless woman has parked herself on the low stone wall near the end of the street. That's strange; I've not yet seen a street person here on Ennismore, although it's true that I haven't been here very long. We have a few of them in the neighborhood around Sara's flat, but that's working-class, and the police don't move them along unless they present a problem. This is a different sort of neighborhood, though.

I'm certainly not planning on giving her a hard time, but I'm curious. I go over toward her, and she hunches up defensively. Now I'm definitely suspicious, because the approach of a well-dressed young woman generally makes street people start wheedling for money, not cringe away. I stop a small distance away, and the woman and I regard each other; she still looks worried, then she thrusts a hand out to me, as if she suddenly remembers what to do.

 _"Gotta little change ta spare?"_ she mumbles.

 _"Yes, I do,"_ I tell her with a friendly smile, _"more than a little. But you'll have to earn it."_ The woman eyes me suspiciously. She's old but not elderly, her face deeply lined, peppered grey hair hanging limp and greasy over a shapeless men's shirt and dirty dungarees. She has a large tote bag on the pavement between her feet, and I'm startled by a sudden movement amidst the flotsam in there.

Alarmed, I step back and point at the bag. _"You've got something alive in there, did you know that?"_ I can't help my voice rising a little. Rats are not unheard of in the city; I once stayed in a flat that was infested with them, and it wasn't very nice.

The woman gives a weirdly girlish giggle and reaches into the depths of the tote. _"It's just m'friend, Edgar. He don't hurt nobody."_ She pulls out a large ferret, and I relax. Ferrets are fine; Sara kept a breeding pair for ages, and we had them all over the place when we were younger.

Grasping him round his limber middle, the woman holds the creature up to her cheek, stroking his head _. "Was you lonely in there, my boy? Needed a cuddle, did you?"_

I know better than to try and pet a strange ferret, but I wouldn't be much tempted by this one even if I didn't -- poor Edgar has a raging infection in both eyes, and they are running and gummed up with yellow gunk. I smile at him anyway and make the appropriate noises. _"Hallo, Edgar! You're a handsome boy, aren't you! What a cute little pink nose! Too bad about that eye infection, though ..."_ Ferret people are worse than dog people -- they're suckers for anyone who gushes over their pet.

The woman tch-tch's at Edgar and tickles him under the chin _. "Ah, he's got a cold in his eyes. Been a while. I wish I could take 'em to the vet, but that's money, in't it? An' we don't have mucha that, do we, dear?"_ she says to the painfully blinking animal.

I have a lovely idea, two birds with one stone, as it were. _"My sister is a veterinarian, you know. If you went to where she works and said that Angelica sent you, I know that she would see your boy for free, and she would give you some medicine for his eyes --"_

Again the suspicious look. _"An' why would she do that?"_

_"She would do it if I asked her to, and I would ask her to if you would tell me a few little things -- see, people helping each other out, right?"_

Still stroking the ferret, she asks, _"What kinda things, then?"_

 _"Well, like who sent you to hang out here and watch for me?_ " and I smile and wink, so she will know that I won't be cross or anything; she gives me a sly grin in return. Ha, I knew it, she's spying for someone!

Talking to the ferret, she murmurs, _"What d'ya think, Edgar? This lady seems to already know, so it's not like tellin', is it?"_

I patiently wait whilst she deliberates with her ferret, and consider who might be wanting to spy on me; Mycroft already has his watchers, and this half-mad woman with her sick ferret just doesn't seem his style. Doreshchenko might employ someone to keep an eye on me, I suppose, although I don't know why he would bother.

Finally Edgar and his mistress seem to reach a consensus _. "We can't tell who he is, but we can tell what he is, then, right?"_

I nod. _"Okay, that seems fair."_ Like, how am I going to argue with a mad woman and her ferret?

She leans over and whispers, conspiratorially, _"He's a detective."_

 _"Oh, really?"_ I whisper back. Lestrade? That would be weird. _"Like, a police detective?"_

_"No, no, we don't like the filth. A private investigator, he said he was."_

Sherlock. _"What did he want you to find out?"_

_"Jus' which street and which door was yours, and if a gentleman visited sometimes. I been watchin' four or five streets in turn, watchin for ya. I'll get paid extra if I get a photo of you, and even more for one o' him."_

That sounds awfully excessive -- even for the Holmes brothers. Why would Sherlock want a photo of Mycroft visiting me? _"This detective, is he old or young? Was he a handsome bloke?"_

She shrugs. _"He was younger 'n me, I guess. As for handsome..._ " she just shrugs again, and pets her ferret. _"Edgar is better-lookin'."_

Okay, either she's lying to me, or else it's not Sherlock, because I really can't see even Mad Ferret Lady describing Mycroft's little brother as less attractive than a sick ferret. It has to be somebody else, then, and I feel a sudden cold chill; someone could be trying to use me to get to Mycroft!

 _"Thanks for your help,"_ I tell Edgar. _"You are a good boy."_ I have a feeling it's a good idea to stay on friendly terms with this pair. I dig through my handbag for my card case and a biro. Pulling out one of Sara's business cards, I scrawl my name on the back of it, fold a fiver underneath, and hand it to Ferret Lady. God only knows what Sara will think, but she has a soft spot for ferrets, and this one could use some help.

_"There, I wrote my name on the back so you wouldn't forget, okay? When you take Edgar in, make sure and ask for Sara Talbot, her name's on the card, and tell her that Angelica owes you a favor, right? And she'll fix him right up."_

Ferret Lady carefully tucks the card one of her pockets, the money in another, and then tucks Edgar inside of her shirt; he curls up into the hammock her bra makes, hanging between her pendulous breasts, and peers out over the top button of her shirt, crusty eyes blinking. She regards me craftily. _"You wouldn't want to pose for me to get a picture, wouldja? I'll get extra for that, you know."_

I shake my head. _"No, no picture, okay? Of me or the gentleman. In fact,_ " I lean forward a little, and get hit by a pungent whiff; Ferret Lady certainly smells ripe in the hot sun! _"Could you keep where I live a secret? Could you just not tell that detective that you saw me at all? After all, I am getting your boy seen to..."_

She scritches the ferret's ears thoughtfully. _"I s'pose it really don't matter. I don't like that man anyways, he said Edgar was dirty,"_ she kisses the top of the furry head in her cleavage and scowls fiercely. _"Imagine!"_

 _"Hard to believe,"_ I agree.

I make my escape from Ferret Lady, and decide that it's too pretty of a day to waste any of it underground on the Underground, so I take the buses to my appointment, and walk the last few blocks in, thinking all the way about what the hell might be going on. I think I should warn Mycroft, although I suspect he already knows.

I arrive at the clinic with time to spare, and check in at the front desk. This won't take long, I'm sure, and then I can hunt down John and see if he's busy or not -- it's too early for lunch, but just about on time for elevenses, so maybe we can sit and have a chat.

Well, I thought it wasn't going to take long. Once the intake nurse pulls up my chart, she wants to make me have every service under the flipping sun. I don't need an STD blood screening, just had one a few weeks ago; don't need another birth-control shot, I'm not due for that until January. I'm up on all my boosters, I just had a pelvic exam and swab done three months ago -- I end up standing in the hallway, shouting at her, _"Will you just give me the bloody jab I came in for and get out of my face? Please?!"_

A bloke in a white coat comes popping out of an exam room, and pipes up, _"I thought I knew that voice! Uh, Nurse, I'll handle this one, okay? Why don't you transfer her file over to me, and I'll take care of it."_

He doesn't need to tell her twice. I grin at John Watson as he ushers me into the tiny room. _"Were you worried I was going to start abusing your staff?"_ I tell him as I hop up onto the table, the paper covering crackling under my miniskirt.

He shakes his head. _"No ... well, yes, a little. Elaine means well, but she doesn't take no for an answer, especially not from a patient."_ He squints at my chart on his computer screen. _"You're just here for the new hep vaccination then, right? No problem. And I can see that everything else is in order,"_ he smiles. _"I think Elaine just saw your date of birth and got all excited to have you in here -- not everyone your age is as regular as you are about taking care of their health."_ I nod. I know; actually, I wouldn't be so good about it myself if it weren't company policy.

 _"But, we still have to do the usual, right? Pulse, lungs, all that,"_ John says, taking up my wrist professionally for a pulse-check. He does a double-take at the faint bruises and thin line of chafed skin, and I let him take up the other wrist as well to look at it; no point in trying to hide anything.

He makes a funny twitch with his mouth, then looks askance at me as he takes my pulse, saying softly. _"I know it's not any of my business, but you don't have to allow yourself to be mistreated ..."_

I roll my eyes. _"It's not what you think ... not what it looks like!"_ He'd better not start in lecturing me again, I'm in no mood!

 _"Of course not,"_ he says, gently feeling the sides of my throat for glands or whatever it is that they always want to feel there for. Thankfully, he has enough sense to not start in on me again about my work.

Getting the jab itself literally takes about twenty seconds, and half of that is him loading the needle beforehand, and applying the tiny plaster to my arm after. _"Are you really busy right now, John, or do you have time to grab a quick cuppa with me? Do doctors get elevenses?"_ I ask.

 _"Well, breaks depend on how busy we are, but you're in luck; Thursdays are generally slow as anything, and today is no exception."_ He gives me a searching frown, which I return with a smile. He looks a little uneasy, but opens the door and motions me to follow him, stopping to tell one of the nurses that he'll be in the break room until his next appointment; she says it will be in fifteen minutes.

The break room is tiny and basic, but there is a sink and fridge, and a few tables and chairs. Once he's gotten my tea and himself a cup of coffee, and unearthed a packet of biscuits from the cupboard, John sits down across from me with an even more searching look that now borders on suspicion. I laugh at him out loud this time. _"Really, you need to hang around with normal people more; I think Sherlock is warping your mind."_

 _"Why do you say that?"_ John frowns as he sips his coffee.

 _"Well, most blokes would be thinking, 'Gee, this is great, an incredibly attractive young woman wants to have some tea and chat with me. I think I'll enjoy that.' But no, you're wondering what's going on, what I'm up to, and what you should do about it,"_ I shake my head. _"Not even able to enjoy the scenery. It's a pity, really."_

He smiles a little ruefully. _"So, why *are* you here? You can't blame me for wondering!"_

 _"I came to get that jab, really and truly. I had to get it somewhere, and I came here because I remembered that this was where you worked, and I thought I could say hello and have a cuppa."_ I smile and raise my mug. _"The biscuits are an unexpected bonus."_

 _"Right,"_ he says, still doubtful. _"Well, I suppose you want to know how Sherlock is doing --"_

_"Yes."_

_"-- and if he's found out anything more on your case --"_

_"Yes!"_ I wonder if I should tell him that Mycroft claims to have solved it?

_"--and what Greg has found, or, has been able to tell us--"_

_"Yes!"_ John pauses there, and I add, _"You forgot one important thing I want to know, though."_

He makes a tiny bit of an I-knew-it face, and asks, _"What's that?"_

_"How are *you* doing?"_

John stops with his coffee mug halfway up and just stares at me, then he blushes.

Oh, good grief. _"I'm not flirting with you, if that's what you're wondering. I don't go after married men. I respect that,"_ I nod toward the ring on his left hand _, "when it's a personal and not a professional matter, you know? I honestly just wanted to know how you were doing, amongst other things."_

He looks like someone who isn't used to being asked how he is, looking around and down and slightly embarrassed _. "Fine. I'm fine."_

I lift an eyebrow at him with just the tiniest bit of skepticism.

 _"Well,"_ he admits, _"it certainly hasn't been a walk in the park. Sherlock was easier to deal with when he was in hospital the first go around, despite the surgeries; he was on some very heavy painkillers, you know? But now they are weaning him off, of course, and it's just been antibiotics .... he gets out tomorrow, on schedule, and I guess his mum and dad are coming into town to help him settle in again or something .... that's certainly not improving his mood any ... and Mycroft still hasn't come around to see him, and for some reason that infuriates him ..."_

_"Wait, Mycroft hasn't visited Sherlock at all this time around?"_

John shakes his head. _"Not just this time, not at all since he was wounded back in June, not once. As far as either of us know, anyway. It's a real sore point, but I don't know what the problem is or why it even matters to Sherlock. Maybe Mycroft has a phobia about hospitals ..."_

I shake my head, remembering striding at his side just this Sunday past, to go to the morgue. _"No, he has no problem going into a hospital. Sherlock's near miss has really rattled his cage, though."_

 _"Really?"_ John takes a biscuit and dunks it in his coffee.

_"Really."_

_"Well, you wouldn't know it from the way I can hear him shouting at Sherlock through the phone, even from the other side of the room! They've always been a bit tense, but it's degenerated into outright warfare the past few days."_

_"Hmm. There are a lot of different ways to show concern; maybe Mycroft's is just loud?"_ I hazard. I have a hard time imagining him in a shouting match, but I guess if anyone could drive you to it, it would be a younger sibling. I am not proud when I remember some incidents with Sara; I once goaded her until she broke a broom over my head!

John takes another biscuit to dunk _. "Hard to tell what's going on with those two; half the time they seem to be speaking in a private code, and most of it consists of what isn't said. Currently, they seem to be arguing over pets, and somebody named Miriam."_

_"Pets? And Miriam?"_

He nods. _"Yep. Of course, you can bet it's not really about that, right? I don't know what's going on, but I wish they would stop it,"_ he adds wearily.

 _"You look really knackered, John. Are you taking care of yourself, too?"_ Honestly, his colour is awful; he looks a little green around the edges, and there are dark circles under his eyes.

 _"I'm fine, really,"_ he sighs. _"Sherlock's condition is finally solidly stabilized, and the sepsis is under control -- for now, anyway. It worries me that the lab still hasn't been able to positively identify -- why are you laughing at me, Angelica?"_

 _"Please don't be angry, but do you realize that every time I ask you how you are, you tell me how Sherlock is?"_ He looks a little annoyed, so I refrain from adding that you usually see that with very enmeshed romantic relationships -- although, to be fair, there was a time when Sara would answer like that. Especially right after mum died, if someone asked Sara how she was doing, she would tell them how I was.

John shrugs _. "I'm as well as can be expected, and let's just leave it at that, okay?"_ The look he gives me says, _I'm drawing a line here, respect it or else._  I bet it has something to do with the missing Mrs. Watson, but it really is none of my business.

I take a biscuit to nibble, and change the subject. _"Has Sherlock come up with anything on the murder of my friend? Because Mycroft claims to have solved it."_

John looks more than surprised, he looks shocked _. "Mycroft? I wouldn't think ... he *hates* legwork, Angelica, I can't imagine that he would undertake a murder investigation. Why would he do that?"_

Urk. Awkward. I wish I hadn't said anything, now. I'm certainly not going to divulge Mycroft's association with Steen, and claiming that Mycroft did it for me makes me out to be far too important to him -- and I don't really know that's true, anyway.

So I give John the completely honest answer. _"I don't know. He's Mycroft; I don't completely understand why he does anything, and he almost never explains."_

 _"I cannot argue with that,"_ John admits. _"And I know firsthand how frustrating that is! And, true to form, I gather he hasn't shared his deductions yet?"_

I bite my lip and shake my head _. "Not really surprising,"_ John comments.

 _"Maybe you shouldn't mention anything to Sherlock about this yet, John? Just forget I said anything. If they are already at each other's throats, then there's no benefit in adding more fuel to the flames."_ Awkward question averted, once more I change the subject. _"So, you mentioned D.I. Lestrade? Any news from him that you can share with me?"_

John considers for a moment. _"Let's see. Well, you remember those two blokes who spoke Farsi?"_

 _"Yes."_ How could I forget? One of them probably still has my boot-print on his forehead, from that fracas on the stairs.

_"No connection to terrorist organizations, or sympathizers. But they do work for an organized crime ring, for someone called the Pigman ..."_

I somehow manage to snort some tea up my nose when I hear that, and it takes a minute to get my breathing sorted out. What the hell? Those two have ties to Doreshchenko?

 _"Are you all right?"_ John asks with concern. _"You seemed a little startled by that news ... "_

 _"Only a little, it was just bad timing."_ I wipe my nose carefully.

_"You know who this Pigman is, then?"_

I nod. _"Yeah, his name is Sacha Doreshchenko -- the nickname is from his younger days, when he used to feed his enemies to a herd of pigs -- he did it to establish a reputation for ruthlessness, you see? He's that sort."_

_"Purposefully mad?"_

_"And really calculating. His little corner of the mafia, his bratva, is involved mostly in transportation, but he's branching out into manufacturing and running designer drugs, and who knows what else."_

John frowns at me. _"You didn't get all of this from Lestrade; he didn't say anything about a drug connection."_

 _"No, it's from ... other sources. And Lestrade isn't specifically in the drug enforcement unit, so how would he know?"_ But inside my head, I grit my teeth. If Mycroft had handed over the intelligence I obtained, then I'm sure Lestrade would know about Doreshchenko's drug lab. This means that Mycroft is very likely sitting on that bit of information....why? And what else is he keeping under wraps?

 _"Sounds like you've been conducting your own investigations,"_ John gives me a wry smile and checks the clock on the wall.

 _"Some,"_ I follow his glance. _"You have to get back to work, don't you?"_

 _"Yes. It's bad enough that I'm fraternizing with a patient, can't have being late on top of it!"_ He takes our cups to the sink for a quick wash-up, and I put the biscuits back in the cupboard.

_"You're not fraternizing with a patient, you're advising a friend. They can't possibly criticize you for that, can they?"_

_"No,"_ he says thoughtfully. _"No, I suppose not."_ Then he suddenly asks, _"You aren't a psychopath, are you?"_

He's not smiling, and I don't know him well enough to know if he's teasing or not, so I take it as a serious question. _"Um, no. No, I'm not."_ But then I remember that Russian gangster I kneed in the face, lying in a spreading pool of blood ... I very likely killed him with that blow, driving delicate facial bones up into the brain ... and I still have no pang of remorse or conscience about it at all ... _"At least, I hope not."_

 _"Good,"_ John says with a brittle smile, and opens the door for me briskly, with a little bow. _"Back to it, then. After you."_

We get plenty of what-the-hell looks from the rest of the staff as John escorts me back to the waiting lounge; I'd give him a peck on the cheek to give them something to really talk about, except it might make more trouble with his missus.

Instead, I offer him a prim handshake. _"Thank you, Doctor Watson,"_ I say formally.

 _"You're very welcome, Miss Talbot,"_ he returns, and we share a smile.

With that little errand seen to, and some more information to chew on, I am free to focus on my primary objective for the day: new clothes. It's not that I don't have anything to wear, I just hate all of it at the moment.

I both love shopping and loathe it. I loathe the looking-for-things part of it, but I love the buy-it-and-take-it-home part. I usually do better if I take someone along with me, because I just get so overwhelmed by the choices that I can't tell what looks good and what doesn't. Years ago, it was always Sara who came with me, then when she got a real job and became completely tedious, it was Steen ... we used to have so much fun playing up the take-your-gay-friend-shopping stereotype, he and I would laugh until we cried, and completely freak out the shop clerks ...

I'm standing in front of the dressing-room mirror, in a gloriously sophisticated cocktail dress by Anna Sui -- it's on sale, I could afford it, but I can't make up my mind. All I can do is stand there and cry. I miss Steen. I miss knowing that I could call him. I miss the good times we had, and the ones we just never got around to. When life left me shattered, Steen helped me to pick up the pieces again when even Sara couldn't -- one of the many reasons why she couldn't stand him, but family and friends don't always mix.

I carefully wipe my eyes to minimize smudging, and decide that this lace and black satin dress is a win. I think Steen would approve.

I score a few more nice things, but I'm fast running out of patience with the hunt. I'm beginning to think that maybe I don't need another pair of go-go boots after all, when my phone -- my old one, I am still carrying both, just in case Lestrade calls me -- my phone rings, and I'm surprised to see that it's Mycroft. Does he need another meeting with me so soon? Or is he just calling to chat or something?

_"Hey."_

_"Angel,"_ Mycroft's voice is low and urgent. _"I need a word with you, immediately. Davies and Brown will transport you. Go with them."_ And he just hangs up! Okay, where are Davies and Brown? They are probably following me right now, and would have gotten notice just after I did... Yep, there is Davies -- formerly known as Arm-hauler -- and Brown must be the tall and dark bloke beside him.

I wait patiently for them to catch up to me, and when Davies says, _"You're to come with us,"_ I nod, and tell him to lead on.

I don't have too much in the way of shopping bags to heave around -- which is a good thing, since neither of them offer to help, not one bit. However, Brown does open the rear door of the saloon for me to scramble inside. Maybe he wanted to be sure that I wouldn't try to take his seat in the front.

Wending our way through the noon-time traffic gives me plenty of time to consider what on earth Mycroft could need to see me for so urgently. I have a little tingle of excitement as I consider the possibilities, and I can't wait to find out. Finally, we end up near Whitehall, but not in the main district -- a kind of back-alley, really, although it just looks disused and not derelict. Davies pulls the car up to a nondescript metal door, a service entry, and tells me, _"That one, there. It's unlocked, go on in."_

I leave my parcels in the car, although I take my handbag. The door leads to an empty, utilitarian hallway, which opens immediately into a commercial kitchen -- or, what used to be a commercial kitchen. The huge cookers and ovens and steel sinks are still in place, as well as long butcher-block counters and high white metal cabinets. The place is run-down, with peeling paint in places and some bits of soft plaster have come down from the ceiling, but it doesn't smell nasty, and it's brightly lit by both skylights and strips of fluorescent lights above.

 _"Hallo?"_ I call out experimentally. _"Anybody here?"_

I hear footsteps, and a familiar form materializes in one of the darkened doorways. Mycroft enters the kitchen walking carefully around the fallen piles of plaster on the gritty grey-tiled floor, his umbrella hooked over one arm.

I look around us, and then at him with some puzzlement. He gives me a bland smile, and pulls his pocket watch out by it's chain, checks the time, and slides it back into his waistcoat. I wait in silence, because that's what my habit is with him; if I'm honest, that's how he's trained me to be with him. Not a flattering thought, but there you are.

 _"Angel. I have received notice that several hazardous individuals will be arriving in London tomorrow."_ As usual, there are no pleasantries -- he starts right in with the matter at hand.

_"Okay. Hazardous individuals. What do you need me to do?"_

He plants the umbrella down onto the tiled floor and leans forward on it, looking serious and intent. _"I need you to avoid them at all costs."_

I nod. _"Okay. For how long?"_

 _"My source reports that they plan to remain in the area until Sunday. It is extremely important that you avoid even accidental contact with these individuals."_ He seems gravely concerned.

The hair prickles up the back of my neck. _"Are they that dangerous?"_

He twiddles a bit with the umbrella handle. _"I didn't say they were dangerous,"_ he says to his umbrella, and slides one hand into his trouser pocket.

_"Right, hazardous, wasn't it? What kind of hazard do they present to me? What could they do?"_

He twiddles some more, and shakes his head _. "It's not you, they are a hazard to *me*, and it's vital that you avoid contact with them. I need for you to stay out of sight whilst they are in the vicinity."_ He sets his jaw and rolls his shoulders back, fixing his eyes on me and obviously squaring off for a fight.

Hazardous, but not dangerous. Hazardous to him, but not to me, but he wants me hidden away for a few days? And the twiddling and lack of eye contact means he's feeling emotional ... I bite my lip to hide a smile. It's his mum and dad, got to be! John mentioned they were going to be in town. I bet Sherlock is tormenting Mycroft with the threat of something embarrassing.... Well, it's totally my fault that Sherlock knows anything, so the least I can do is to cooperate.

 _"Okay, no problem,"_ I say.

Mycroft's eyebrows go up in surprise, then snap together in frowning suspicion. _"What are you planning?_ " he growls.

I don't have to affect innocence. _"Nothing at all! You made a request, it sounds reasonable, I'm agreeing to go along with it."_

He continues to regard me with deep suspicion. _"I seem to remember that you object strongly to house arrest, as you called it -- and that you often do not stay where you are told to."_

_"This is a completely different situation."_

_"You are capitulating far too quickly."_ His eyes flick over me again, and then he turns his face slightly away; is he embarrassed? _"You have obviously been talking to John Watson,"_ he comments to the cooker behind me.

 _"Yes, I have."_ No point in denying it! I know that he knows exactly where I've been this morning. _"I ran into him at the clinic where he has his practice."_

_" 'Ran into him?' How terribly convenient."_

I shrug. _"I had to get the jab today anyway, it's work-related. I chose that clinic because I wanted to see John."_

_"And ply him for information?"_

I cross my arms, and lean against the edge of the cooker. _"Well, it's not like you'll tell me anything, is it? I wanted to know if there was anything new on that torch business."_

_"Was there?"_

_"You probably already know."_

_"Tell me anyway."_

_"The two men who accosted Steen and I, and ransacked his flat, were working for Doreshchenko."_ Mycroft's face remains impassive, I can't read anything there. _"That's all I found out. That, and the fact that John is under way too much stress and not doing very well. And that your parents are in town this weekend. And that Sherlock is really upset that you haven't been to see him at all."_

Mycroft's expression has shifted into a tight-lipped mingling of exasperation and embarrassment, and it suddenly occurs to me that perhaps he hasn't been to see Sherlock because of what he might reveal. Mycroft's probably mortified that he might accidentally let it slip to Sherlock how the shooting has affected him. And then he might have to admit it to himself.

Yes, his cage is definitely rattled, and there's really only one way out. " _You know, I think that at some point you need to let Sherlock know how you felt, almost losing him."_

I guess that was just a step too far, because his expression turns to granite. _"Oh, do you?"_ he says with icy contempt, but it can't touch me. I know what I know, and the smile I give him in return is genuine.

_"Yep, I do. You'd both feel better, because holding in something that big takes a lot of energy. It's very inefficient."_

Mycroft continues to glare at me balefully. _"You have no right,"_ he says flatly.

I can only huff at him in exasperation. _"No right to what? To give a damn? Mycroft, if you wanted someone who wouldn't care, you shouldn't have chosen me! But, I think that was part of why you did choose me, wasn't it?"_ He looks down and doesn't answer, and doesn't look like he's going to, so I go on. _"I really don't mind at all staying out of way this weekend; just tell me the exact times and I promise I will stay indoors at the flat until they're gone."_

He raises his eyes, then. _"You needn't stay just at the flat. Perhaps a visit to your sister might be in order?"_ he suggests quietly.

I bite my lip as I shake my head. _"Maybe for an afternoon, but I can't stay there anymore. Sara's boyfriend has moved in, and there's no room for me now..."_

 _"I see,"_ he gazes intently at the tile floor, frowning at it.

For once, I'm glad that I can count on Mycroft not to feel sorry for me. _"But, I don't think I will have a problem holing up at Knightsbridge for just three days. I can handle it."_

His eyes dart up. _"I shall, of course, compensate you for the inconvenience..."_

I give him an evil grin. _"No, don't. That's okay, I really think I'd rather have you indebted to me."_

He gives me a look both calculating and concerned. _"You're beginning to get a little too good at this, you know."_ He shakes his head, _"It's a worry."_

_"Oh, don't fret. I doubt I'm really in danger of losing my breathtaking naivete any time soon."_

That actually makes him smile, although it's directed at his umbrella. _"I would tend to agree."_

Then he looks up at me, serious once more. _"These individuals are to arrive here in London tomorrow afternoon at three-fifteen, and they are scheduled to depart Sunday morning at eleven-forty. I need your word that you will stay secluded between those times. Do I have it?"_

_"Yes, you do."_

_"And if you should need to go out for any reason whatsoever, you will text me first for clearance?"_

_"Yes, sir,"_ I intone solemnly.

After a searching look at my face, he nods, pulls his watch out again, checks the time and flips it back into his waistcoat in one fluid motion. _"You may expect to see me Sunday afternoon at one o'clock."_

With that, he abruptly turns to leave, but he stops when I call out urgently, _"Wait, Mycroft, there's something I need to tell you!"_ I can't believe I almost forgot!

He turns, looking politely interested. _"What is it?"_

It comes out in a rush. _"I nearly forgot to tell you, someone is using street people to spy on the flat, and trying to get photos of you going in. I talked to one of them this morning ..."_

My concern evaporates as he rolls his eyes and huffs in annoyance. _"Sherlock, and his insidious homeless network!"_ Mycroft says sarcastically. _"That is merely the continuance of an old game, Angel, pay it no mind ..."_

I shake my head. _"I don't think it's Sherlock. I talked to the woman, gained her confidence, and it doesn't sound like she is working for him."_

Mycroft flicks an eyebrow, but shrugs. _"Still nothing to worry about. Ignore it."_

_"What if they're trying to blackmail you or something? They couldn't ... use me against you, could they?"_

That seems to amuse him, and he chuckles as he shakes his head, No. _"The primary advantage of being merely a minor civil servant, is that nobody cares. There is a great deal of freedom in that. My official position is of little consequence, so there is no leverage that can be applied, no public opinion that I might lose to scandal. My ... arrangement with you is nothing that will even raise an eyebrow, much less an outcry. It's not like this kind of thing hasn't been attempted before. Ignore it,_ " he instructs again, then turns to go.

_"Hey, one more thing."_

_"Yes?"_ he frowns impatiently as he half-turns toward me.

I wave around at our surroundings. _"Why here?"_

 _"Privacy, and convenience,"_ he replies shortly. _"Until Sunday, Angel."_ And he waves the umbrella at me over his shoulder as he vanishes through the shadowed doorway.

Privacy and convenience? Convenience undoubtedly means convenient for him. Privacy. Well, when he had me brought to his office it was night time, and quite dark. Right now there would be people about there -- and even more of them at Whitehall. So I guess this would be the most private meeting-place, if he really felt the need to meet face-to-face so he could talk me into cooperating. I sigh. I guess it makes sense, in a very dramatic kind of way.

I pull out my phone and drop a Maps pin for this location, then check the address to see where we are; I'm not surprised to see that it's only a block from Mycroft's official office in Whitehall. I bet he has a whole slew of spots like this one, nooks and crannies in the city where he can arrange to meet people that he needs to see on the sly. Like me.

I put away my phone and go back the way I came in. Some working girls really get off on being the hidden little bit on the side, somebody's dirty little secret -- and there is a certain pleasure in that, a kind of heady power. But for me, it's also a bit depressing, probably because I'm such a narcissist. I thrive on showing off. I don't doubt that Mycroft appreciates me in private, but I know he will never, ever take me anywhere on his arm -- and like he said once, he doesn't come around for the conversation.

Before going out into the bright day again, I stop and consider the change in my plans and make a quick list. I'm determined to keep my promise, so I have a lot to do before tomorrow at 3:15.


	21. "Between the mirror and the heart is this single difference: the heart conceals secrets, while the mirror does not." ~ Rumi

 

The black car is still there and waiting for me when I emerge, blinking a bit in the bright day. Through the open car window I can see Davies behind the wheel chatting away on his mobile, and a flash of gold on his right hand catches the sun for an instant. Gold ring on the right hand? As I step closer and reach for the rear door handle, I take a good look at Davies' hand holding the phone up to his ear. Yep, exactly like Mycroft's, a plain gold band. I guess I just didn't notice it before.

I check out Brown's right hand as I click on my seatbelt; no ring. I guess they don't all have them, or maybe it's a coincidence that Mycroft and Davies do; someday I might get up the nerve to ask about it. Davies ends his call, and glances a question at me in the rearview as he starts the car. I ask him to please drop me off at the flat; he just nods, and drives.

Looking at the city rolling by outside the window, I consider my list, and the next twenty-four hours or so. On a practical note, I need to stock up on whatever groceries I'll need for the weekend, and work out until I'm exhausted; that way, lying about all day Saturday will be a welcome respite and not a penance. On an impractical note, I am obsessed with talking to Lestrade. I really want to know if Mycroft is keeping the extent of Doreshchenko's operation to himself; it's likely that he is, I just really want to know for sure. Will I mess things up if I tell Lestrade the little bit I know? I bet Mycroft has already anticipated that, so probably not. Besides, I don't plan on telling the inspector everything, just tipping him off that Doreshchenko is branching out into drug manufacture and distribution.

And I'm certainly not going to mention that Mycroft did his own investigation into Steen's death; he seems quite content to let people believe he's the baddie if they want to -- I don't feel a need to try and change the inspector's mind about that. Besides, Lestrade might turn up something interesting.

And there's also that other thing, damn it. Reluctantly, I admit to myself that I also need to tell Lestrade about the blackmail photographs that I found of Calypso and that mustached bloke, Cobb. I'm not certain that those made their way over to Scotland Yard either, and that bit of news could make a difference in Lestrade's investigation into the escort murders. Mycroft probably doesn't care about that, but I do.

I haven't wanted to think about it at all, because of how it makes me feel about Calypso, but the fact that she was involved in sexually abusing a minor with Cobb means that he had one hell of a motive to have her murdered; he may even have thought she was the one blackmailing him. I doubt that he would've shot her himself, but he looked like he could afford to hire a killer -- and maybe one clever enough, and ruthless enough, to try and disguise the real reason for her murder by killing two more escorts. Both Mycroft and Lestrade seemed absolutely certain that it wasn't a serial killer, and I'm inclined to believe them.

It makes me a little queasy to think about this whole thing, because I'm having a hard time reconciling my opinion of Calypso with what I saw in that photo. I just can't believe ... but I don't know the whole story, and likely never will. Maybe she was forced into it, as much a victim as that girl. In any case, whoever shot Calypso and Regina and Tanya in cold blood needs to be taken off the streets and locked up for good, and so does whoever arranged it.

Davies and Brown drop me off without a word in front of the blue door on the quiet cobblestone street; it's good to be home. I toss my parcels onto the sofa, and go dirty the freshened kitchen by making myself a quick lunch.

I start dawdling over my phone as I eat, getting engrossed in some twaddle on the blogosphere -- and I'm perfectly aware that I'm stalling. Well, Angelica, either do it, or don't do it. I send Lestrade a brief text explaining that I have some new information to share, and to please contact me ASAP. There.

Flopping into an armchair, I heave a huge sigh. Now I have to decide, should I continue to try and keep my contact with Lestrade a secret, or just go ahead and be brazen about it? I value Mycroft's trust, and sneaking around looks like I'm trying to hide things from him. Well, maybe I am, but I don't want it to look that way ... besides, I have the nagging feeling that my little subterfuges are fairly lame anyway, so, really, what's the point? If the inspector wants to meet in person, then I'll just go and meet him, no more cloak-and-dagger stuff. It occurs to me that Mycroft has not actually forbidden me to talk to Lestrade, which is very interesting. He told me not to pursue investigating Steen's murder, but never told me to not contact Lestrade or tell him anything. I start considering whether that might be all part of some plan, a subtle manipulation ... but trying to unravel it makes my head spin after a while, and I decide that nobody could be that devious.

In an effort to not climb the walls, I've unwrapped, admired, tried on and put away all my new clothes by the time the inspector finally gets back to me; he calls instead of texting back, and he is very brusque and to-the-point. As I suspected, he had no idea about Doreshchenko's drug venture, and is keenly interested in my source for the information.

_"Well, it's firsthand information, and I don't have any reason to doubt that it's accurate, Inspector."_

_"Firsthand, as in straight from Doreshchenko? You heard this from him, yourself?"_ He sounds a little doubtful, and I don't blame him.

_"Yes."_

There is a long pause. _"So you have been to see Mad Sacha, then? Is that what you are saying?"_

I swallow a little uncomfortably. I hadn't thought about the reaction when I imagined telling him this stuff. _"Yes."_

_"And why on earth would he just tell you all about his new enterprises?"_

I really don't want to go into a big long explanation, so I decide to hide behind Mycroft's coat-tails. _"I'm sorry, how I came by the information is classified, but I am telling you what I was told by Doreshchenko himself, and it's up to you if you want to believe it or not. If he was lying to me, all you'll lose is a few man-hours following up on it; if he wasn't, then you have an opportunity to shut him down, and possibly find something that could help in ... other cases. It's a solid tip."_ There is another long pause. " _You're welcome,"_ I add quietly.

He sighs in frustration. _"There's more that you're not saying, I can tell."_

_"No you can't tell, you're just guessing, but...Well, I should think you'd be happy that I'm taking the trouble to tell you this much."_

_"Yeah, terribly grateful for any crumbs ..._ " He must be having a bad day, to come out that snarky. I decide it's time to make his day a little better.

 _"Here's a bigger morsel for you, then. I have a tip on a suspect and a motive in the escort murders..."_ I describe to Lestrade the photo that I saw, in enough detail to make me feel slightly nauseated, and who was in it. Of course, he wants to know where that piece of evidence is at the moment.

_"Sorry, but it's --"_

_"Classified, right?"_ he doesn't even wait for me to reply _. "Thought so. I can't launch an investigation on a high-profile suspect without hard evidence behind me, you should know that!"_

_"Yes, of course I do! Sorry that I can't hand the evidence to you on a silver platter, Inspector, but it's out of my hands, literally. All I can do is point you in the right direction, and trust that you can find more if you know where to look."_

_"And why am I supposed to believe that it's the right direction?"_ he snaps.

I huff at him in exasperation _. "Give me a break! What would I have to gain by pointing you in the wrong one? I don't get my fun from wasting your time, and if I were trying to frame someone, then wouldn't I be feeding you false evidence, not just giving tips?"_

 _"I suppose so,_ " he says grudgingly.

 _"Your turn, now,_ " I tell him. _"Is there anything new you can tell me?_ " Yes, I'm testing, to see if he'll tell me what I know from John.

There is another long pause. _"There is. It's not much, but we were able to follow up on the two Iranians, and no terrorist affiliations at all. So much for your racial profiling, Miss Talbot."_

_"But...?"_

He sighs. _"But, they are connected with the Russians. Specifically, Doreshchenko's organization."_

_"Connected how?"_

_"We don't know yet, not exactly, although we have a reliable inside informant who gave us evidence that they are on the payroll. He was supposed to pass along more information a few days ago, but he seems to have disappeared."_ I can hear the shrug in his voice _. "It happens."_

I have a sudden suspicion. _"Is this informant a young ginger bloke, calls himself Dimitri?"_

Lestrade sounds surprised. _"Yes! Yes he is. What do you know about him?"_

That turd certainly got around. _"That he's a complete and utter arsehole, mainly. And very possibly dead, which wouldn't make me at all unhappy. He was double-dipping for someone named Mica, and apparently also feeding you information as well. I guess he had some expensive habits and had to pay the bills somehow..."_

I can hear the mental wheels turning through the phone. _"Well, what he passed along to us was evidence, not just talk, so I haven't any reason to be doubtful about it. He also worked for Mica, eh? Interesting. Oh, hold for a minute, will you?_ " I can hear the murmuring of other voices in the background, and a moment later Lestrade is back. _"I have to go. Contact me if there's anything else, and I'll get back to you when I can, okay?"_

I agree, and that's that. Well, nothing much new, except that now I'm sure that Mycroft is withholding information from the police left and right. He's probably trying to reduce the variables, hoping to keep things contained. And then there's me, like some erratic spark jumping between crossed wires .... if that is the case, though, why does he let me do it? Either he doesn't know, which I have a hard time believing, or else my actions don't really have an impact. If there's a third option I can't see it right now.... Well, there'll be plenty of time to think and reflect this weekend.

I'm just pulling myself together to get out the door for groceries and such, when I get a text -- from Sara? I'm immediately suspicious, she never texts me. Seriously, I think it's been years since she did. _Please call me very soon!! Quite urgent!!!_ it says.

Obviously, she read somewhere that people who text use lots and lots of exclamation marks ... I know I'm rolling my eyes as I perch on the arm of the sofa and hit her number. What could be so urgent? Emergencies are things that happen to other people; Sara is far too careful for that. And I reckon that she texted me instead of calling to extend the olive branch, a token of doing things my way instead of hers for a change.

She answers right away. _"That was fast!"_

_"Well, all those exclamation marks got me so excited, I couldn't help myself. What's up? Has something happened?"_

_"Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you; it's not really a big deal, it's just a...thing. So, how have you been?"_ I hear dogs yipping and barking in the background, meaning she is in the kennel ward, probably doing her rounds.

 _"I'm great. Fantastic. You?_ " That might have sounded sarcastic; sometimes I don't hear it in myself.

There's a pause, and I can tell she's wondering whether to pry or not. She decides against it. _"I'm fine, yeah, things are going great. It's been busy."_ There's another pause. _"Listen, are you free tonight? Are you ... working, or have plans with friends or anything?"_

_"No, I don't have any commitments -- it's a Thursday! Not a super busy night, generally. What's up?"_

Sara takes a deep breath. _"Well, I know that this is incredibly last-minute, and you don't have to say yes unless you want to, I will absolutely understand if you don't want to be bothered with this but it would mean a lot, you know?"_ She stops for another breath, and I wait patiently for her to get to the point. It's hard for her to ask for favors, even from me; she's usually the one doing them. " _So, this week has been the London Vet Show, of course, and we've just been frantic with it, the BVA congress was an absolute zoo this year ... anyway, tonight is the Gala Dinner, you know? To benefit the Animal Welfare Foundation. And we're going, of course, and Richard has this friend --"_

_"-- who needs a date tonight?"_

Sara exhales. _"Yeah. He's from out of town, and he's really nice. We had someone lined up for him, we bought the tickets and everything, but she canceled on us and he won't go if he doesn't have a date. Could you make it? It would mean a lot to me and Richard if you would."_

Well, I could give a rat's arse about Richard, but I will help my sister out. It's what we do. Even sisters who move their twit boyfriends in and toss their only living relative out on the pavements....

 _"I can make it. What time? What venue? And please tell me that he's young and handsome. It would be great to at least have something pretty to look at over dinner."_ Not that it will be much of a dinner; these charity do's seem to be overcharged, overcooked, and overdone. I've worked as an escort at a couple of them, and they are awful -- and the sex afterwards tends to be stupefyingly dull, although I certainly won't have to be worrying about _that_.

Sara hesitates before answering, not a good sign. "He's, ah, not exactly young ... but _very_ nice! Just a really _nice_ man, you know?" What I know is that she's called him "nice" three times in the last thirty seconds. This doesn't bode well for a sparkling evening, but hey, I'm a professional, I can handle it.

Sara goes on, _"Chelsea Harbour Hotel is the venue, it's a really posh place, you'll love it. It's only like ten minutes away from you, I think. The dinner starts with drinks at seven, and there's dancing until midnight ...."_

The Chelsea really isn't bad at all; the views from the penthouse suites are spectacular, especially at night. Well, I've only ever been there at night, but it was an awesome view. _"It's not a black-tie affair, is it? I'll have to pick something up quick if it is, all my evening dresses are still boxed up at your and Richard's flat."_ Snark.

She ignores the dig. _"No black-tie, just lounge suits and cocktail dresses. I'll be wearing that blue one I have, with the ruffles; Richard likes it."_

Hmmm, there's certainly an awful lot of Richard in her conversation. _"Just this morning I scored an Ann Sui, ecru lace over black satin, it should be perfect... Shoes! I have to check and make sure I have shoes for it. Is this bloke short?_ " Please let him at least be a reasonable height! It doesn't matter all that much, but it does matter.

_"He's about the same height as Richard, maybe a teeny bit taller, so I think you could get away with high heels."_

_"Perfect."_

_"And, ah, Richard asked if you could say that you work as a PA for a civil servant, okay? He wants you to come across like you're respectable."_

I snort, but don't voice what I think Richard can do with his respectability. _"Actually, that's not too far from the truth, except that I'm an EPA, really. An Extremely Personal Assistant."_ She doesn't even chuckle. _"Don't worry, I will be as refined and respectable as any of the nobs there. Probably moreso. Do you want to meet in the hotel lobby at seven?"_

_"Make it six forty-five, okay?"_

_"I'll be there."_

I gaze at the phone in my hand after we hang up. Amazing how quickly things can change!

The rest of the day, what little there is of it, passes in a blur. I splurge on a cab to go get supplies, since there won't be time for the leisurely shopping trip I had envisioned, and ruthlessly purge my to-do list. At times like this I realize how many hours I waste just plodding along; when I have some proper motivation behind me, I am a whirlwind of efficiency.

By six-fifteen I am painted, polished, primped, and suited up, and by six-forty I am emerging from a taxicab in front of the wide glass doors of the Chelsea. The lobby is thronged with people in their gala dinner attire, their chatter echoing shrilly off the mirror-polished green marble floor and high plaster ceilings. I wrinkle my nose as I locate an empty sofa cushion to perch on in the sitting area; this place is designed to impress in a grand way, but I really prefer the cozy elegance of little boutique hotels.

Sara arrives on her Richard's arm a few minutes later, looking very cute and pleased with herself in a flouncy teal number. The bloke trailing after her and Richard is tall and sandy-haired, with a nervous smile and a very nice suit. He's younger than I expected, which is a plus. He has a full head of hair, double-plus. When introductions are made, the minuses show up: his name is Thomas-but-call-me-Tommy, he's a junior partner in a large-animal surgery, and he's from some tiny seaside village in Devon. Oooh, I bet he'll talk at me all evening about boats. Boats and poxy cows and foot-rotted sheep. How exciting.

Richard announces that the ballroom that is set up for the BVA dinner is on the third floor, and folds his arm around Sara to propel her toward the lifts beside the sitting area. Bless her, Sara balks and looks at me. _"Why don't we take the stairs? It's only three floors, and so much healthier to walk! I reckon we'll get there faster, too."_

I shake my head imperceptibly at her. _"Oh, please, I'd rather take a lift. These shoes are killing me already!"_ I point at my black stilettos.

 _"Sure, that's fine,_ " Sara says, but she sounds surprised. Richard looks from Sara to me and back again, then a light dawns in his pale grey eyes just as the lift dings.

He reaches out to hold the cushioned bumpers on the lift doors, keeping them open, and says to Sara, _"That's right! Your mum was killed in that horrible acciden--Oof!"_ Sara is deadly with her elbows, I should know. Serves him right, the knob. I march into the lift, and stand rigidly in the middle of it, waiting. The worst part is, he's completely wrong. I don't know where he got the idea that our mum died in a lift accident, that was somebody else. Mum died at hospital.

There is a long silence as we ride up to our floor and get out; the panic doesn't hit until I'm out of the lift already, and my collywobbles are quickly cured by a glass of wine once we reach the bar. Thomas-call-me-Tommy natters on and on in his broad West Country accent, although he has yet to say anything remotely interesting. He's starting to get on my nerves, and we are barely half an hour into the evening. This is not good.

I realize that Tommy is not just socially awkward; he is scared to death of me, and I am not being terribly kind to him. I am exquisitely aware of all the little things I'm not saying, all the little motions my body is not making, all the myriad ways I know to set a man at ease and make him feel like he's the most fascinating thing on two legs--and I'm not doing a single one of them. That's very interesting. Have I become so used to being paid to act affectionate that I can't even be pleasant for free anymore? Is this what other sex workers mean when they talk about the work getting to you?

Suddenly, Sara takes my wineglass from my hand and sets it down on the bar beside us, grabs my elbow, and drags me into the loo with her before I can even object. Like the lobby, it's all polished green marble and shiny brass, and the little sitting area just inside the door has the same squishy sage-green sofas. Knowing what's coming, I cross my arms and lean against the wall, waiting for Sara to have her say. She closes her eyes and sighs.

_"Right. Look, Angelica, I'm sorry, okay? Let's just get that out right up front. I can tell that you are still upset because...for a number of reasons, and I want you to know I appreciate that you came here tonight, despite still being cross about Richard moving in. But, please, don't take it out on Richard's friend."_

_"I'm not taking anything out on anybody!_ " I protest. _"Just exactly how was I taking it out on him?"_

_"Not yet, but you were getting ready to, I can tell. Geli, I *know* you! Admit it, you were thinking uncharitable thoughts, weren't you?"_

_"Yeah, I suppose."_ Since we're standing right in front of an enormous mirror that covers one wall of the sitting area, I move closer to inspect myself and make sure everything is where it's supposed to be. _"I can see why *nice* was the best you could come up with to describe him. Figures he would be a friend of Richard's."_

Sara turns to the mirror as well, and fluffs and pulls at her brown curls with a frown. _"And you aren't impressed with nice, are you? You've got no use for it."_

I frown back at her in the mirror. _"That's not true, and it isn't fair, Sara. I like nice blokes just fine --"_

 _"No, you don't,"_ she interrupts flatly. _"You never have, and you still don't. Like, take that man that you're involved with right now, for example -"_

 _"I'm not involved!_ " It comes out louder than I intended, and I spin away from Sara to check the back line of my dress over my shoulder. _"He's just a client,"_ I continue in a quieter voice. " _Only idiots get involved with clients,"_ I remind her.

 _"Right. Whatever."_ Her finely-arched brows knit together. " _Well, Mona certainly has some opinions about your client. Frankly, some of what she said made me a little worried for you, but then she's obviously not all there, so I have to take it with a grain of salt."_

I halt my primping to gaze directly at Sara. _"Who the hell is Mona? And why does she have opinions about Mycroft?"_

Sara gives me a what-the-hell look. _"You sent her to me, didn't you? She said she was a friend of yours; her ferret has bacterial conjunctivitis, and she wanted a pro bono from me ..."_

_"Oh! Mad Ferret Lady! She brought Edgar to you already? That's good."_

_"Mad Ferret Lady, yeah,"_ Sara chuckles. _"You're getting as bad as me, knowing the name of the pet but not the owner."_

_"So, what did she say about Mycroft that was so worrying? And how does she know anything about him?"_

_"She said that she's been told to be extremely careful around him, that he is a very dangerous man."_

That makes me smile as I lean down to pluck at my patterned stockings, straightening the rows of black lace and cinching up my suspenders a bit. Dangerous? Mycroft seems to have power, and I know that I like that about him, but I have a hard time thinking of him as dangerous. Danger is too messy. _"Like you said, she isn't all there. And thanks for taking care of the ferret; I owed her a favor, and I didn't think you'd mind too much."_

_"I don't mind at all, just don't make a habit of it, okay?"_

_"I won't. So, did Ferret Lady Mona have anything else interesting to say?"_

_"She didn't shut up the whole time, but most of it was just raving. She went on and on about how your watchers are watched by watchers who are being watched. It made my head spin. And she is obsessed with the idea that the Russians are invading Britain and taking over and going to try to kill us all with torches. I think she's stuck in some mental Cold War time warp. I just nodded and smiled and tended to Edgar. Aside from the eyes, he's in surprisingly good shape; she really tries to take good care of him. Is she one of your psychology projects?"_

Russians killing us all with _torches_? What the hell ...? _"Yeah, she's kind of a project. So, what else did she say about Russians and torches? It's, ah, one of her delusions."_ I pull my tube of lipstick out from my bag to have something to twiddle with.

Sara makes her thinking face in the mirror, pursing her lips and switching them side-to-side. She's such a berk. Finally she says, _"There was a bit more, but I can't remember. Sorry._ " I shrug that it's okay, and she gets her lipstick out, too, and we dab and blot, side by side in the mirror.

I'm obviously going to have to track down Ferret Lady next week and talk to her some more; if Edgar's eyes are better, then she'll be inclined to be even more cooperative. Even a mad woman can have her uses.

Our primping done, and some harmony restored, Sara and I gaze at our reflections in the glass _. "Richard's right, you do look great in that dress,_ " I impulsively tell her, but she just huffs at me in disbelief. _"No, I mean it! It really shows off your gorgeous womanly bosoms._ " We both giggle then; that was our Auntie's phrase for tits-- she was always very concerned that we adequately cover and control our developing "womanly bosoms."

 _"Yours don't look so bad in that dress, either,"_ Sara says, but I pull a face at her. _"Oh, stop it!"_ She elbows me in the waist. _"You're a bloody super-model and you know it, so just stop with the fake humility."_

I sigh. _"But it's not fake. Do you know how depressingly easy it is for me to pass for a boy? Like, the way I'm built, there's almost no difference. I don't even have to bind what there is of my womanly bosoms; all I have to do is change my clothes and hair and you can call me Roger. Super-model, my arse."_ I grin at her, remembering a old in-joke. _"I have a poor body image, I blame society! I'm oppressed!"_

Sara just shakes her head and glances up at the clock on the wall. _"Dinner will be starting soon, so let's go and rejoin the representatives of the oppressive patriarchy, shall we?"_ She sweeps the door open and bows to me. _"After you, dear Roger!"_

We meet up with Richard and Tommy by the bar, and I have to admit that Sara's instincts were spot-on; I had been working up to a real rage-dump on Mr. Nice, and he really doesn't deserve that. I give him a little more eye contact, a little more smiling, and he relaxes and stops being quite so irritatingly nervous. However, he starts being irritatingly flirtatious, so there might be precious little improvement overall. He takes my hand and places it on his arm as we go from the bar to the ballroom, and pats my hand familiarly. His palms are damp.

The dinner itself begins with an agony of boring speeches, so I amuse myself by sussing out the other diners, seated at the big, round tables. It's always fun to see if there are any previous clients; they almost never recognize me, but if they do a discreet smile and nod is all that's required. Tonight I only recognize two, a het couple that hired me for a threesome back in May. That was quite a lot of fun, especially the woman of the pair, she was wild...I think he fell asleep before she and I were done...oh, look, she saw me looking at them, here's the discreet smile and nod, no problem. From the way she's grinning, I think maybe she recognized me after all; that's nice.

My attention is abruptly riveted to the podium and the boring speeches when I see a face I know stepping up to the microphone; it's Cobb, in all his mustached and pedophilic glory! What is that piece of refuse doing here? He appears to be giving out some award or another for notable efforts in wildlife conservation. I realize that I don't know anything about him except that he has some sort of official position, an office at Whitehall, and enough pull to make Mycroft attend a wedding he didn't want to.

Actually, now that I know Mycroft better, I'm astonished that Cobb managed to get him to show up at all; I can appreciate what torture that event must've been. A noisy crowd of people, sappy sentiment everywhere-- no wonder he escaped for a moment of solitude. I wonder what Cobb got out of it? He was showing Mycroft 'round like a trophy, a social coup, but if Mycroft keeps a low profile as part of his self-protection, what was the benefit to Cobb?

Cobb is droning on and on about noble efforts to save the fairy penguins someplace in New Zealand, so I stop listening to what he's saying, and look at what he is communicating in other ways--and suddenly I just _know_. I know he's bored, going through the motions. I know he's impatient to get done and away from here. He hates everyone in this room, but especially the tiny woman standing just behind and to his right. A blonde-who-should-be-grey, she is painfully thin and dressed in a skimpy black dress that hangs on her. Honestly, she looks like a skeleton in a wig with a face painted on. I reckon she's his wife. He hates her. As he speaks, his hand flicks up again and again to almost, but not quite, touch his nose, and then his eyes flick down at his fingers. He has a cocaine addiction, maybe even snorts stronger stuff. He recently had a nosebleed, and is worried about it happening again, in front of everyone, then everyone would know. He's afraid. He's very afraid...

Cobb hands a dark wooden plaque to the two young men who are called up to collect it, they shake hands, photos are taken, and everyone claps for the child molester as he and his hateful painted skeleton return to the VIP table to sit and wish they were someplace else. I am so going to stalk that man online while I am housebound! I need to know more about him.

We are finally served what passes for dinner, and the table-side entertainment follows along after the serving trays. I'm delighted to see that tonight's entertainment is not silhouette-cutters; lately it's been impossible to avoid these strange little men with their black paper and scissors, I guess it's all the rage. No, the British Vets Association has decreed that we shall have table-side magic shows tonight, which I actually enjoy. I always loved magic acts as a kid, and even when I learned that magicians are all just smoke and mirrors and illusion, I still loved it.

Probably because of my enthusiastic clapping and oooh-ing at his tricks, the magician makes me the focus of his little performance when he gets to our table, and I couldn't be more pleased. Whip-thin and elegant in his black-tie and tails, he does the coin trick, the endless handkerchiefs, the impossible hoops, all of it, and I eat it up, the perfect audience. He ends the performance by giving me a paper posey and a kiss on the cheek, whilst Sara rolls her eyes and mouths, "Show-pony!" at Richard. I don't care, I'm having fun. I watch the magician as he opens his performance at the next table, and there is something about that figure in spotlessly correct formal attire that puts me in mind of Mycroft. He would look good in a suit like that. And that slightly smug half-smile that magicians have, the one that conceals the effort they're putting into appearing effortless, that reminds me of Mycroft as well.

Tommy reclaims my attention, and wants to know if I've ever been sailing. Inwardly, I groan; I knew he was going to talk at me about boats. I hold firmly to my stance that even though I haven't ever been sailing, this does not obligate me to visit him in Devon to try it. His tone goes all too quickly from persuasive to wheedling, and I am just about to snappishly take the piss out of him when my phone chimes softly from inside my little evening bag. I slip it out to check, and it's a text from Mycroft: _Terribly sorry, Cinderella, but you will be leaving the ball early. MH_

Well, that certainly won't make me sad, but what's going on? I excuse myself from the table, murmuring that I will be right back, and, ignoring Sara's fierce frown, I head for the loo for some privacy.


	22. "Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived in order to be understood." ~ Helen Keller

The posh, carpeted hallway is completely deserted, and silent once the heavy ballroom doors close behind me. I head for the ladies' room, thumbing a text to Mycroft as I go: _Doesn't the magic usually last until midnite?_

He texts back: _The fairy godmother is capricious. Phone me._

I pause in the hallway, looking at the message. Well, at least he seems in a good mood, but if he wants me to phone him, I don't think I ought to do it from the loo. I recall there were some hotel telephone courtesy booths beside the lifts on this floor, so, mobile in hand, I follow the signs pointing the way. I don't particularly like sitting in a tiny padded booth with a big window in the door, it's creepy, but it will be better than talking to Mycroft with the sound of flushing as background music.

After the lights and noisy crowd of the charity dinner, the hallway almost feels spooky; I'm aware of the silence and the shadows as I make my way to the third-floor lounge, where the plush carpet abruptly gives way to white marble tile. The loud click of my heels on the floor apparently startles a well-dressed older man pressed against the tall windows overlooking the marina; he visibly jumps and turns around with an expectant look, then frowns at me, brushing his fingertips across his bristling grey mustache -- it's Cobb! His eyes rake across me, taking in my face, my breasts, my legs; he gives a polite and unconcerned nod of the head and turns to look out the window again. I stop and pretend to look at my phone, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He's waiting for someone, anxiously, and also peering at one corner of the marina, the far end under the Belvedere Tower. Everything about him makes the hair on the back on my neck prickly with anxiety.

There are just three tiny booths, and I duck into the one that will give me a view of Cobb, if I angle my head just right. Keeping one eye on him as unobtrusively as I can, I punch Mycroft's number.

_"Hello, Angel."_

_"Hey. So, why do I have to leave early? Is there something interesting going on?"_ I say hopefully.

_"No, not at all. It is of minor importance, actually, but the hazardous individuals that I am expecting are prone to unfortunate attacks of spontaneity. They are already here. Therefore, I am exercising my option to recall you with two hours' notice, and sending a driver around to collect you at 10:56; I trust that you won't find this an imposition?"_

_"I guess not,"_ I say reluctantly. _"But I'm not happy about it! I don't care about tonight, but I had some things I wanted to take care of tomorrow morning. Aren't you being a bit paranoid?"_

There is a pause, then he admits, _"I am perhaps somewhat...anxious at the moment--"_

_"Uh-huh."_

_"--and doing my best to keep things under control."_

_"Like me, for example!"_

_"No, not like you,"_ he observes. _"People can't be controlled, they can only be managed."_

_"Hmm. Is this spontaneity going to affect when I'll be able to leave the flat on Sunday?"_

_"Unfortunately, yes, as they seem to have hired a car. You'll be notified as events progress, but I need you to be patient."_

_"Just let me know the minute it's okay for me to go outside, okay? Because by Sunday I am going to be hanging on by my fingernails. Oh, and please do let me know if you decide to cancel your visit with me."_

I could swear I hear a slight smile in his voice. _"Oh, no. No, I don't think that I will be canceling my time with you on Sunday,"_ he says dryly. _"Not after the weekend I have ahead of me."_

 _"Okay."_ I wonder what kind of shape he'll be in after two days with his family? He doesn't seem to hate them, but I don't get the impression that he's exactly looking forward to this visit, either. _"Where am I to meet my driver? I'd rather they didn't come up to the ballroom..."_

_"Anthea will be at the main lobby entrance at 10:56."_

_"Who's Anthea?"_

_"My senior assistant, you've seen her before. The brunette."_

Ah, Ms. Bitchy Black-dress. Oh, goody. _"Okay,"_ I sigh. _"I'll be down at the lobby by eleven o'clock."_

 _"Ten fifty-six,_ " Mycroft corrects.

 _"-ish,"_ I insist with a smile. _"Hey, guess who I'm looking at right now?"_ Cobb is starting to pace now, and jiggle up and down on his toes.

Mycroft plays along. _"I couldn't possibly."_

_"Cobb. He's standing by one of the windows overlooking the marina, peering at the berths at the south end by the tower, and I think he's expecting someone to come up here and meet him at any minute. He's so tense, he's almost freaking out. Do you want me to try to eavesdrop on him or something? It would be pretty easy..."_

_"Mr. Cobb is not your concern, Angel,"_ Mycroft says firmly. _"You are to meet Anthea in the main entrance at 10:56, go directly to the flat, and remain there until you receive further instructions from me."_

 _"Sure thing,"_ I murmur, watching Cobb jiggle and pace. He's looking over his shoulder every now and again, and keeps checking his watch. His rendezvous must be late. _"Hope your weekend goes better than you expect, Mycroft."_

 _"I doubt it."_ He sounds resigned. _"Good night, Angel."_

I end the call, but put the phone back up to my ear as if I just made another one. I want to watch Cobb for a few minutes more, just in case something interesting happens. And then, it does. A lift rumbles open and Evan McCutcheon walks out! He goes directly over to Cobb, who stops his fidgeting to turn full about, hands in pockets. Cobb's expression is surprised, and displeased. It wasn't who he was expecting, apparently.

McCutcheon looks exactly like he did at Verge a few weeks ago, a pale little humpty-dumpty of a man, dressed all in black. He has a big grin plastered on his face, like he is enjoying Cobb's discomfiture. I can't hear a word they are saying, since I'm in a sound-proof booth, and I'm not very good at lip-reading, either. I'll have to think of something else, but carefully, because McCutcheon will certainly recognize me if I draw attention to myself.

Keeping my head still so I can keep watching the two men out of the corner of my eye, I reach for the door handle of my booth, and very slowly turn it. Cobb and McCutcheon are engaged in a heated discussion, and neither one seems to notice my door opening just a few inches. Their voices are raised enough that I can now hear snatches of their conversation, and my curiosity is definitely piqued. Cobb refers to "that goddamned Russian" and "your boss;" could he mean Doreshchenko? And I'm certain I hear McCutcheon grate ominously, _"Would we be even fucking talking to you if we didn't have it, jackass?"_

Finally, Cobb seems to lose his temper entirely, and growls through clenched teeth, _"Fine! I'll go, but I can't get down there until 10:30, and I'm not stepping onto that bloody boat, you understand?"_ And he storms off back toward the ballroom.

McCutcheon stands there a moment, very still and no longer smiling. He has a different face on now that he thinks he's alone, and even his posture changes; he's angry. He is a very angry little man, and looking at him standing there, alone and lost in his thoughts and his anger, I feel a catch of fear in my chest. There is something very, very not right about that little man.

McCutcheon takes out his mobile and thumbs a number as he strolls to the lift right by my booth. _"It's Evan."_ McCutcheon reaches out to punch one of the call buttons for the lift. _"He'll be down at 10:30..... No, he wouldn't come earlier, said he couldn't leave the dinner any sooner... How should I know? He probably wants to wait for more backup...yeah, he knows where your boat is, the south side where the cameras are aimed toward the street and not the marina."_ McCutcheon really does have an odd accent, Scottish and Yank at the same time, and his voice has a raspy, soft quality to it. _"This is your game, Sacha. I wouldn't be dicking around with this fucking prat, I would just start carving off bits and not stop until he handed it over...yeah, I know,"_ McCutcheon gives a mirthless chuckle. " _That's why we work well together. I'm going to go wait downstairs in the bar."_

As he ends his call, I _know_  that he is going to glance over at my booth and see me through the window, so before that can happen I shift my face completely away, and start murmuring _"Uh-huh... mmm.... yes...._ " like you do when the other person is talking your ears off. My skin crawls as I feel McCutcheon staring at me, willing me to look at him so he can identify me, but I shift in the little chair and examine my nails like I'm bored, keeping up my charade. Only after the lift dings it's arrival and I hear the doors rumble closed again do I glance over; McCutcheon is gone, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

So, what the hell is going on? What is this "it" that Cobb has, and McCutcheon and Doreshchenko want? It goes with something they have already, from the sound of things.

I consider if I should phone Mycroft back and tell him that Cobb is meeting with Doreshchenko, but decide against it; I don't want him to directly order me not to try and find out more. The timing is very convenient; I can leave the dinner just a little bit before I have to, go down to the marina, lurk a bit, and still be out in front of the hotel to meet Bitchy-dress by 11:00. And, worst case, if I get caught, both McCutcheon and Doreshchenko know me -- I can claim to be trying to relay information about potential customers to them. Foolproof.

Back in the ballroom, the next hour or so goes by painfully slow. My announcement that I have been called into work and must leave a bit after ten o'clock is met with stony silence by Sara and Richard, and a few easily-fielded questions from Tommy, who sadly seems to be laboring under the delusion that he has actually pulled me. He keeps dropping hints about staying in town through the weekend. I will personally break Sara's arm if she gives him my phone number.

The after-dinner dance music is nearly enough to put me to sleep standing up, but moving around helps the time to pass, and out on the dance floor I don't have to deal with not talking to a totally miffed Sara. I am also able to keep an eye on Cobb from out there. He spends most of the time fidgeting and watching the door. A few minutes before 10:00, a very large, muscular man in a tweed sport coat enters the ballroom and goes over to Cobb's table -- who the hell wears a nubby tweed in the middle of summer? He sticks out like a sore thumb, but he and Cobb look to be having an intense conversation. When I'm next able to glance over there, Tweed-man is gone, and Cobb seems less nervous. Maybe that bloke was the backup that McCutcheon was talking about.

When the clock hits 10:10, I can tell that Cobb is getting ready to get out of there, and I'm ready to beat him to it. Tommy tries to delay me, but I am politely adamant. No, I can't stay longer. No, you can't walk me down to my ride. No, I don't want to get together tomorrow. No, you didn't do anything wrong. I shake his thin, moist hand, nod to Sara and Richard -- who both give me the stink-eye -- and take the stairs down to the main floor. There's a restaurant at the rear of the hotel, and I go through it and out through the wide glass doors overlooking the marina, taking care to avoid the bar, just in case McCutcheon is still there. I stick close to the pavements by the buildings and away from the water for now, and make toward the south end of the tiny harbourage.

Once upon a time, way back in the 70's, this was a really dark, nasty little pocket of post-industrial blight; I've seen pics of it from before the renovation work done in the 80's. Now a quadrangle of big, modern buildings -- the hotel, residential buildings like the Belvedere Tower -- surround a tidy 50-berth marina, and the whole area is lit up like an upscale Christmas tree, which is why I feel perfectly safe lurking about to see what goes on between Cobb and Doreshchenko.

There's maybe twenty berths occupied in the water tonight; most of them are various powerboats, although there are a few small yachts as well. It's a calm night, nary a breeze, so the water is like a looking-glass reflecting the lights from the sidewalls of the marina as well as the big white globes of the terribly quaint victoriana street-lamps. The cobblestone pavements grit a little under my shoes as I click-clack along. Cobb is somewhere behind me, still in the hotel, but I pick up my pace anyway as I spot a huge powerboat moored against the marina's south wall, under the shadow of the Belvedere Tower. I can see lights on in the cabin of that boat, although there's no other sign of life. Still, I know it's Doreshchenko's. For one thing, it's enormous, and I can't imagine him wedging his girth into a smaller one!

Just past the corner of the marina, I come to an intersection of the cobblestone pavements and slow down, looking around carefully. I need to lurk someplace out of sight until Cobb comes, and there is a distinct lack of lurk-able places around here. Halting under one of the fluted iron lamp-posts, I take out my cigarette case and light one up to give myself time to suss things out. I don't know if I'm being watched or not, so I keep my attitude calm and casual, looking around like I'm just admiring the scenery. I notice that there is a tiny alley in-between the Belvedere and the building beside it, almost hidden by some thick shrubs. Ordinarily, I wouldn't think it a good idea to lurk in a dark little alley, but this is not a high-risk neighborhood. If they go down by the boat, I won't be able to hear or see much at all, but if they stay up beside the marina I'll have a ring-side seat. It looks like my best shot.

Looking at the inevitable CCTV cameras overhead, I can see that McCutcheon was right; they are aimed at the entrance to the Belvedere and not at this end of the marina. It really is a dead zone. I finish my cig and flip the butt into a bin, then stroll in a wide loop that ends with me slipping behind the shrubbery at the front of that little alley. It smells a bit of damp earth and mould, and it's dim rather than dark; even though there are deep shadows pooling on either side of the crumbling brick walls, I can still make out that I am the sole occupant. There's not so much as a stray cat hanging about.

I lean against the weathered brick beside me, and check the time on my phone before muting it. It's only 10:28, but when I look up I see that Cobb and Tweed-man are already here, standing at the edge of the marina and looking down at the big boat moored below. A bloke comes out onto the deck of the boat, and looks up -- their heads would be on the same level if Cobb crouched down, but I doubt that he is likely to do something that undignified. I can't hear what they are saying quite clearly, but the bloke on the boat gestures at the steps leading down to the quay, and Cobb shakes his head. Tweed-man stands behind him, arms folded. It's a standoff. The bloke shrugs, and goes back into the cabin. A moment later, Doreshchenko comes out and, unbelievably, he steps off the boat onto the quay, and comes up the steps himself. He moves pretty easily for such a large man, I wouldn't have expected that. He joins Cobb by the iron railing surrounding the edge of the marina, close enough to me that I can make out the tartan of Doreshchenko's Burberry trousers under his green smoking jacket.

Their conference is brief, and I can make out almost every word. " _Mr. Cobb,"_ Doreshchenko starts in formally, _"I grow tired of these endless negotiations. I have come tonight -- I have come to you! -- so that speaking face-to-face we might reach an agreement. Perhaps you would care to visit my very comfortable accommodation here,"_ he waves at the boat, _"So we can do some business?"_

Cobb puts his hands in his trouser pockets. _"I don't see any point in a conversation, you know what my terms are. Ten percent of the gross profits, from all the clubs, including the big one--Verge, isn't it? That's a bargain, considering that what you have is useless without what I have, and you stand to make a great deal of money combining the two."_

The Pigman purses his lips. _"Yes, yes, but there are also expenses involved as well. Large expenses. And much risk. You seem to want a great deal in return for very little risk, Mr. Cobb."_

This seems to annoy Cobb. _"My level of risk is irrelevant!"_ he spits, _"I have the code book, and without it your little scheme is tits-up! I should think that you wouldn't quibble over the price. Or are you that close to the edge?"_

Insulted, Doreshchenko growls something in return that I can't hear, and Cobb growls back, turns away, and strides off with Tweed-man trotting at his heels.

The big Russian looks daggers after Cobb's retreating back, then shakes his head, and steps back down toward his boat. I lean my head against the brick beside me and let out the breath I've been holding. Bloody hell! I wonder if I should call Mycroft right away with all this, or wait until I see him? I guess I'll --

I hear a soft sound behind me, and half turn around, expecting to see a kitty prowling along behind me. It's not a kitty. Two men leap forward from the shadows, the larger one clamps a rough hand over my mouth and pins my body against him, the other holds the razor-sharp point of a knife to my throat; I immediately stop struggling as I feel the sharp prick of pain and feel a tiny wet trickle follow it. The one with the knife says, _"Not a sound, right? Not a sound."_

I blink in response, afraid to even nod my head, and the one behind me takes his hand away from my face. These thugs aren't muggers, they want me to talk. I'm so shaken right now that I think if the bloke behind me wasn't holding me up in a crushing grip, I might fold at the knees and go down.

 _"Now,"_ the knife man says, _"Who are you, and who do you work for? Lying would be a very bad idea, pretty girl, so tell me the truth."_

I make a show of stammering with fear, to give myself time to think -- and truth be told, I am scared, but the initial shock of being attacked is wearing off, and I can feel rage replacing it. How dare you pin me and hold a knife on me, you scrawny son of a bitch! I let myself go slack against the man behind me, so he is forced to hold up every stone, and he staggers slightly at the unexpected weight. Still stammering, and acting like I'm getting faint, I let my evening bag drop as I curl my hands into fists  --

\--  but before I can move, another figure springs to life from the shadows, and Knife-man is suddenly flying sideways, grunting in pain as he crashes against the brick wall and bounces off of it, falling limp, his knife skittering across the ground. The other bloke lets go of me before the first has hit the ground, and whips out his own knife to slash at...well, thin air, because the person he trying to slice is suddenly behind him. A foot lashes out with deadly precision, and there is a wet crunch and a hoarse groan as falls.

Anthea thoughtfully surveys her handiwork, both men unconscious on the ground, then pivots toward me, casually tucking her dark hair back behind her ear. She doesn't ask if I'm okay, but her gaze sweeps over me once, checking for damage; her eyes linger at the trail of blood on my neck, but she comments, _"That doesn't look too bad. Let's go, quickly."_ As she turns, she catches my eye and points at my evening bag on the ground; I scoop it up and follow.

 _"You were supposed to be waiting at the hotel lobby,"_ she remarks as we reach the inevitable black Jag, parked in a well-lit area on the other side of the Belvedere.

I look at my phone; it says 10:52. _"It's not time yet,_ " I tell her.

Anthea doesn't answer, just raises a dark eyebrow and hits the squawk button on her key fob to unlock the car. She slides into the driver's seat, and on a whim, I get into the front with her. She registers that with another raised eyebrow, as we buckle in and take off.

I am simmering with curiosity. _"How did you find me? Oh!"_ As the words leave my mouth, I know the answer. _"You tracked my phone, didn't you?_ " She just smiles a little.

 _"Thank you for taking care of...that, back there. You completely kicked arse! I didn't even have a chance to help."_ I want her to know that I would have.

She shrugs off the compliment. " _They weren't expecting it. It wouldn't have been that easy without the element of surprise. Those two were professionals."_

_"Do you know who they were working for?"_

_"Why don't you tell me?"_

I sigh and look out the window. Those goons had to be working for either Doreshchenko or Cobb, securing the perimeter. The Russian wasn't too worried about security back there, but Cobb sure was, and with good reason if he's playing hardball with the likes of McCutcheon and Doreshchenko.

 _"They were probably working for Mr. Cobb,"_ I say finally. _"I overheard some things that Mycroft needs to know. Should I tell you right now?"_

She nods, and I outline for her everything important that I heard in the hotel and out by the marina. I don't bother to explain any of it, I figure that she probably knows more than I do at the moment anyway.

When I finish, I'm waiting for some kind of response, either a _Well done!_ or a _That was pointless!_ but there's nothing. She just nods, and deals with the traffic. We're almost to Knightsbridge when I break the silence again.

_"Would you have been able to beat those thugs anyway? If they had been ready for you? They had weapons!"_

Anthea glances at me out of the corner of her eye. " _So do I,"_ she says simply, but doesn't elaborate. She's armed? That slim, dark dress doesn't look like you could conceal a blade or gun anywhere, and her classy black pumps aren't made for combat either. She sees me checking out her outfit, and gives the road an enigmatic smile.

I'm casting around in my head for tactful ways to ask her the questions that I am dying to ask: Where did you learn to fight like that? What weapons do you have? What do you do, exactly? But I don't have the nerve right now, so I just sigh and sit back.

She glances over at me. _"Nice dress."_ It's a sincere compliment, I think. _"Dior?"_

I shake my head. _"Anna Sui."_

She nods. _"Looks good. Better."_

I almost ask, Better than what? But the answer is obvious--better than I usually do. I look out the window, my cheeks feeling a little flushed. Well, that's _her_ opinion.

I minute or two later we are pulling up at the blue door in the narrow, cobbled lane. I have an urge to thank Anthea again for saving my hide tonight, but the words stall in my throat before I can say them; she was just doing her job, after all. I imagine she gets paid pretty well for what she does. Whatever that is. So I just quietly wish her a good night, and she wishes me the same.

As I'm getting out of the car, I remember to glance at her right hand, resting on the steering wheel -- and there is a plain gold band on the ring finger. Same as Mycroft, and Davies. There is definitely something up with that.

She doesn't drive off until I have let myself into the flat, and when the door softly clicks shut behind me, it occurs to me that I won't be opening it again until Sunday.

I suddenly feel very lonely. Very small, and alone. It's probably just the adrenal let-down from being attacked in a dark alley, but knowing where it comes from is no help. I draw all the drapes tight, turn on every light in the entire flat, upstairs and down, and put on some soothing jazz music. I take a long bath, put a plaster over the tiny nick on my throat, slide into my favorite oversize t-shirt, make a nice cup of milky tea, and curl up on the lovely soft brocade sofa.

And I still feel miserable. I miss my cat, Pablo. I miss Sara. I miss sitting on her shitty sofa in her shitty flat and hearing about her shitty day. My eyes start to tear up.

Okay, damn it, this is an emergency. I go get my phone and grab the colorful, soft throw from the armchair. Pulling the blanket over my head to make a little tent, I call my sister.

 _"Hey,"_ she says.

 _"Hey,"_ I answer. There is a bit of a pause. Well, I called, so it's kind of up to me to say something, but I can't think what.

 _"Are you okay?"_ Sara asks.

_"Yes."_

_"You don't sound okay."_ She's suspicious.

_"I haven't said anything! How can I not sound okay?"_

_"You sound like you have a blanket over your head. You are not okay."_

How can she tell? It must muffle the sound. _"I do not have a blanket over my head, that would be silly. I'm fine."_

She sighs. _"So, what happened? Tell me what's going on."_

I draw in a shuddering breath, and it all comes out at once. "I _was attacked by two thugs with knives, I'm all alone here at the flat and I can't leave it until Sunday, and, and, and Steen is d-dead..."_

 _"Hold it, hold it, just...stop! Angelica, slow down, take a breath,"_ she commands. _"Now, one thing at a time. Are you safe? Right now, are you safe?"_

_"Yes, I'm home..."_

_"You said you got attacked. Are you hurt?"_

_"No, my driver kicked their arses before they could do anything, she was awesome! She--"_

_"Good,_ " Sara cuts in patiently, _"you can tell me about the arse-kicking later. Now, who is dead? What happened?"_

So I tell her. I tell her all about Steen, at least everything that I feel I can tell her. I have to pause in the middle and go get my handkerchief, because there's no stopping the tears, but I keep on talking around the sobs.

 _"Geli,"_ she says at last, _"I am so sorry about your friend getting killed. That is really horrible, I don't know what else to say. He was a good...you were very fond of him."_

Something angry and perverse rears up in me then. _"Yes, he was a good friend, but you never liked him, did you? You always blamed him because I went to work for the Agency instead of trying to go back to school."_

_"He was pretty up-front about recruiting you, Angelica! He was proud of making you his protege, and it always seemed an odd thing to be proud of --"_

_"He got me a job, a good job that pays really well! The Agency would never have even called me for an interview without his personal recommendation."_ And that's the truth; regular escort services will take applications from girls who want to work for them, but the Agency is strictly by referral and invitation only -- you don't call them, they call you. _"He was the one who helped me get back on my feet after I flunked out of uni."_

Sara answers very quietly, _"That's because you wouldn't let anyone else help you. I tried."_

I don't want to go there with her, not tonight. _"You did what you could at the time,"_ I sigh. When he finally lost his battle with cancer, Daddy's long, agonizing death left both me and Sara shattered in different ways. I spiraled further out of control; she spiraled inward to compulsion. Neither of us handled it well, but since I was the one who completely trashed my life, by comparison Sara thinks she did just fine. I know better.

 _"Listen,_ " she tells me, _"You shouldn't be alone right now. Why don't we come and pick you up? I'll fix up Richard's study for you, and you can spend a couple of days here. Pablo misses you, I miss you...it'll be fun, we can go shopping on Saturday, and goodness knows there's probably an art festival somewhere. You like art festivals. Go pack a bag, and we'll come get you tonight."_

God, I wish I could take her up on that! I could go over there, Mycroft already offered...but it wouldn't just be hanging out with Sara, it would mean being cooped up with Richard as well, and I don't think I could take it... _"No, I can't leave the flat until Sunday. I have to stay here."_

Sara makes that gargling-strangling noise in her throat that she does sometimes when she is really frustrated. _"You aren't joking, are you? Why do you have to stay locked up until Sunday?"_

_"It's kind of complicated, really, and I don't want to go into it, but let's just say that it's for my protection and leave it at that."_

_"Oh, it's for your protection,"_ Sara says sarcastically. _"Can you even hear what you're saying anymore? The incredibly...odd things that you just take for granted since you took up with this Holmes bloke? Does it register in your brain that normal people don't do these things, don't worry about these things? What the bloody hell do you need to be protected from? He could just be making stuff up so he can control you, you know. I don't think this is healthy."_

She just doesn't get it. " _Look, this isn't a relationship, it's a JOB. I'm not being coerced or manipulated into staying, it is completely up to me to stay or go. The situation might be a little...unusual, but I'm being compensated very well for putting up with it."_

" _Right. Okay._ " She's not going to go there tonight, which is fine by me. _"I only make a fuss because I care, you know."_

_"I know."_

We lapse into a comfortable silence, until Sara blurts out, _"So are you going to sit there until Sunday with a blanket over your head?"_

I pull the throw down and push my hair back from my face. _"No, I'm not. I'm going to watch movies and surf the interwebs and eat too much. How about you?"_

_"Well, the last BVA membership meeting is tomorrow afternoon, and then things go pretty much back to normal for us..."_

I listen with only half an ear as she natters on about her work, about Richard, and his friend Tommy. I remember to let her know that he isn't to have my phone number.

_"I figured as much, Geli, don't worry about it. I haven't said it properly yet, but I appreciate that you came out tonight on such short notice. I WAS thoroughly miffed that you left early -- but it all worked out. Tommy pulled one of the accountants from the Watford clinic, and they ducked out before the last dance, so I reckon he's forgotten you already."_

_"An accountant! Much better match for him, I think."_

_"Mmmhmm. And your dangerous government man is a better match for you, I guess, although I don't approve at all."_

_"Sara! Will you stop? It's not like that."_

_"Oh, yeah? I reckon you're blushing right now."_

_"I am not. Stop being a jerk._ " I pull the throw back over my head.

 _"I'll stop being a jerk when you stop being a moron. Maybe you're not involved, but you are attached, admit it!"_ And she chortles in that unpleasant big-sister way.

 _"Look, you just don't get it, okay? You don't know this business. Caring about clients, even having friendly feelings towards them, it's part of the job. It may look from the outside like I'm overly attached, but I'm not. There are definite boundaries, some lines you just don't cross."_ Except that I'm not sure where mine are, anymore. I thought I knew, but then I let Mycroft just sail right over them...

 _"You know, I may not know 'the business,' but I do know YOU, Angelica. And I know what you're like when you are into a bloke, and you are into this one."_ I huff at her and start to object, but she talks over me. _"No, don't bother with your bullshit, just listen to me for once. I know how you are when you are into someone; you're incredibly loyal, that's what's great about you, you're loyal, and you stick by the people you care for. You're devoted. The problem is, you devote yourself to the wrong people! You trust them to the ends of the earth, and you shouldn't."_

My eyes tear up. I didn't call her to get a lecture tonight, I'm feeling too fragile for that. _"So, you're saying that I'm so stupid I can't tell when I should trust someone?"_

She sighs. _"No, I don't think you're stupid. I just want you to stop and think for a change, and not just go by what you feel. Feelings...well, sometimes they go down the path of least resistance, you know? To me, it looks like you catch a whiff of someone being a bit shady, a bit untrustworthy, a bit dangerous, and it's like a cat smelling catnip, you know? You run over and roll in it!"_

The image of me rolling in a bloke like a kitty in catnip makes me giggle -- until I think about Dimitri and how I reacted to him. Damn. And Mycroft, too, how he fascinated me right away....and him sitting right there, telling me that I shouldn't trust him, not at all....

I don't want to think about this anymore. _"Point taken, but that's enough for tonight, okay?"_

_"Okay."_

We chat for a few minutes more to wind down. It's a relief to finally get off the phone with her, I can only take so much, but despite the fussing -- okay, if I'm honest, because of it -- I'm much more calm and relaxed. I curl up on the sofa with my head still under the throw, and fall asleep right away.

All that night, and the next two, I sleep on the sofa downstairs, with all the lights on. I don't know why, it's just what feels safer that way. The bed upstairs seems too big and too enclosed at the same time, like that ruffled canopy is too low, the room too small for everything in it.

True to what I told Sara, I watch movies, I surf, I eat. I smoke, too, but I didn't want to mention that to her, it's another thing she doesn't approve of. Sitting by the open window upstairs, watching the leaves flicker and rustle in the breeze, listening to the traffic rumble through the wash of summer rain showers -- it's peaceful, and sometimes I sit there long after my cigarette is gone, just taking in the little slice of the world through that one window. I'd go mad if I had to be shut up in here for very long, but for two days, it isn't bad.

I'm also not completely isolated. I chat with online friends, catch up with the posts I've been missing on the escort's forum, stuff like that. On Friday afternoon, I also start getting random texts from Mycroft every now and then. It's things like:   _There can be no possible excuse for the existence of American Country and Western music. None._ And on Saturday afternoon:   _There is no stopping_ _Mummy feeding the pigeons at Trafalgar. She flouts the law, and I am left to suffer for it._

Maybe he needs to let off some steam about his family, and he might not be able to vent to Sherlock right now. Maybe he's rewarding me for following through with my promise; I haven't set foot outside the flat since Thursday night, and I don't intend to. Well, I lie; I did swing out the upstairs window in the twilight Saturday to sit in the tree, only for a little while. I just had to do it. But in any case, I get a little thrill every time my text alert goes off. He probably knows that.

I make sure and do something physical every time I get restless, working out hard enough to break a sweat. I push the furniture to the sides of the sitting room to make a clear space large enough to really be useful, and practice the moves I saw Anthea doing on Thursday night. It's hard to remember, exactly, because it was dark, but what she did doesn't seem physically possible. One second she was _there_ and the next she was over _there_ ; it just doesn't seem possible, but I saw it. When I start to entertain the idea that maybe she actually has superpowers, I know it's time to stop speculating and give the whole thing a rest. I sure would love to spar with her, though, and learn her moves.

I spend a lot of time online stalking Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, but I don't get very far. Mr. Cobb is from a family that controls a private investment firm, very well-heeled, he went to all the right schools and has all the right associates. He doesn't work for the civil service, though, as I originally thought; he heads a private consulting firm and spends a lot of time at Whitehall, but it's a very slippery sort of business, and I can't pin down exactly what he consults _on_. Mrs. Cobb is what Daddy used to call a professional do-gooder; she's on the governing boards of half a dozen charities, but I think it's all for show. Both Mr. and Mrs. Cobb's names came up linked to some very shady stuff -- they were two of a dozen people implicated in a human trafficking sting two decades ago, although the case was dismissed on a technicality and they were never actually charged with anything.

Looking at various online photos of his dapper, high-society facade, I can only hope fervently that *somebody* can bring that coke-snorting, child-molesting, murderous bastard down. I don't care if it's Mycroft, or Lestrade, or Doreshchenko and his pet psycho McCutcheon, I want Cobb to get what he deserves.

Then there's the business that I discovered on Thursday to consider. What the hell, so Doreshchenko owns Verge? That would explain why it was McCutcheon's home-away-from-home, and also the notable lack of police enforcement inside the club. And Cobb wants 'a piece of the action' in return for a codebook -- it has to be the Torch codebook, which means that Doreshchenko managed to get his hands on the formulas, or a copy of them, and intends to make money from selling the stuff at his clubs.

Well, that's all above my head, to be honest. I don't like the idea of them doing shit like that, but I don't feel like I have to get out there and make them stop. I've turned the information over to people who can do something about it, and that's that. What matters to me is that the responsible party -- whether it's Cobb or whoever -- gets nailed for the escort murders, and that whoever killed Steen gets it as well. I wish Mycroft would give me that information, but he is likely worried that I would take it into my own hands. He might be right on that.

When it's finally Sunday morning, I am dying to text Mycroft and ask if it's time yet. I feel like a child waiting for school to let out. I pace, I tap, I twitch. I'm desperate to smoke as well, but I don't dare; even blowing the smoke out the open window would still very likely stink up the bedroom.

It's nearly noon before he texts me, and the message is so brief I almost think it's an empty one at first: _5:00 p.m._ That's it, that's all. _5:00 p.m._ Fine, okay, five o'clock. I can deal with that.

It's got to be the longest five hours I've ever spent. I put all the furniture back to rights, clean the place top to bottom, clean myself bottom to top (although leaving a little rough patch for him to play with if he likes), try on six different outfits before settling on the first thing I had put on (a brand-new little number in soft turquoise satin), unsuccessfully try to read four different books, and talk to Sara for nearly an hour on the phone about absolutely nothing.

By 4:30, I'm a wreck, and decide that a cup of tea to settle my nerves is an absolute necessity. I pad down to the kitchen in my bare feet, and once in there I realize I'm kind of hungry, too. I should grab some cheese and fruit for a light tea. It's not good to eat too much before a session with a client, but a grumbling tum isn't very sexy, either. I take a pear from the fruit bowl and the smaller chef's blade from the knife block, making pretty slices to lay on the plate beside my steaming mug. Mycroft will be walking in the door at 5:00 precisely, of course, so I still have time to have a quick nibble and brush my teeth again before he arrives...and then I hear the front door open.

I'm so keyed up that the unexpected sound makes me jump nearly out of my skin, but I recover quickly and stand absolutely still. I hadn't heard the key in the lock, but I wasn't listening for it. Now I hear the door being closed quietly. Too quietly, like someone trying to minimize the noise, and then it's completely silent. Is it Mycroft? It shouldn't be, because the clock on the cooker says it's only 4:37, and he is never, ever anything but precisely on time -- but who else would it be? Whoever it is, they aren't coming out into the sitting room where I can see them. They are staying in the front hall, unseen and silent.

I start to call out -- until it occurs to me that someone else might know that Mycroft is due here at 5:00; what if they are planning an ambush? What if those thugs from Thursday night found out where I live? Okay, that's kind of paranoid, but what if? Silently, I tighten my grip on the wicked sharp chef's knife in my hand. If that's Mycroft over there, he'll just think I'm being silly. If it's not, then I might be glad to have a weapon of some sort.

Holding the knife down at my side, partially hidden in the short, full skirt of my dress, I glide silently on bare feet toward the entry.


	23. "Trust no friend without faults, and love a woman, but no angel."  ~ Doris Lessing

The polished oak floor is cool and hard under my bare feet, and I am not even breathing as I slip down the short hall between the kitchen doorway and the front entry. As I step silently around the corner, I see that it's Mycroft after all, in a creamy linen suit, hands clutching his umbrella, leaning with closed eyes against the wall just inside the front door. He looks just shattered, poor man, and almost like he's fallen asleep standing there. I relax and move closer, breathing a sigh of relief.

At that soft puff of sound, his wide blue eyes fly open. My mouth begins to curve into a smile of greeting, and I draw a breath to say, " _Hey --_ "

Lunging forward, Mycroft whips the umbrella at my right wrist, hitting it precisely on a nerve that sends a hot jolt through my hand. My fingers go numb as I scream with pain and surprise, and the knife clatters to the floor.

From my wrist, he arcs the umbrella up, around, and down, cracking it into the tendons behind my left knee. My leg crumples under me and I go down, landing on my knees, cradling my right hand against my chest.

Then somehow he's behind me, the shaft of the umbrella gripped tightly in his fists and pressed so hard against my throat that I am fighting for breath, not quite strangling. With his bony hip braced against the back of my head, I know he could snap my neck right now with minimal effort. I let myself go limp, surrendering, as I rasp out, " _Mycroft, please! I didn't think it was you!_ "

He releases me and steps to the side, but keeps the umbrella in a ready stance. _"Why wouldn't you think it was me? You knew I was coming!"_ he says warily.

In response, I fling my left hand toward the clock on the wall. _"You're fucking early! Really early! You're never early. And you were being so quiet...."_ I'm embarrassed to realize that I've got tears in my eyes.

He flips out his pocket watch and checks the time, brow furrowed in dismay. _"My god, you're right. I'm twenty-one minutes early."_ He looks down at me, completely chagrined. _"My deepest apologies, Angel._ " Mycroft hangs the umbrella over one arm and helps me back up to my feet. _"I don't know how... I seem to have misjudged transit time, that never happens...frightfully distracted, I'm afraid...._ " He leads me over to the sofa, insisting that I sit down beside him so he can evaluate my wrist and knee.

Mycroft's manner is clinical, his touch on my wrist and leg light and impersonal as he completely regains his composure. _"No obvious fractures. Make a fist...now flex, please...and extend..._ " I repossess my hand from his ministrations, and briskly wriggle and clench my fingers. It still hurts a bit, but even though I really hate pain, I take some pride in appearing tough about it. Besides, I don't want to make a fuss over this; it's as much my fault as his, and I'm feeling pretty foolish right now.

 _"I'm fine, Mycroft, see? You didn't hit that hard, just in all the right places."_ I nod at the umbrella, hoping to change the subject. _"So that's not just for keeping the rain off after all. Any other tricks it can do?"_

He looks down at the knobby handle curving over his arm, then back at me. _"Tricks?"_

 _"Is it, you know, weaponized or something? Does it fire bullets?_ " I ask, eyeing it and wondering if I was lucky to have not shot myself in the fanny that one night....

Mycroft scoffs as he rises from the sofa. _"Weaponized. What for? It's already a weapon."_ Standing clear of me and the furniture, he runs through a stylized set of stick-fighting moves so quickly that the umbrella is a black blur, whooshing as it slices through the air. Then he's abruptly still, the whangee handle hanging casually from his arm once more. _"Wielded with appropriate skill and force, anything can be a weapon, you know._ " His voice is soft and casual, but his eyes are hard. _"Anything at all."_

He's unsettling me a little, and I distract myself by jumping up and fetching the knife from the floor to put it away. _"So, you mean I didn't have to come at you with a kitchen knife? I could've used the egg whisk?"_ I say lightly.

 Mycroft puts the umbrella in the stand, and adjusts and smooths his light blue tie, studiously ignoring my attempt at banter. I duck into the kitchen to lay the knife by the sink and, smelling the heavy perfume of cut fruit, I can't resist nicking a sliver of juicy pear from the plate and popping it into my mouth, rolling the sweetness of it around on my tongue. God, that's good! I'll have to save the rest for later, though.

I pad back out and see that Mycroft is leaning, hands in pockets, against the wall beside the umbrella stand. He frowns at me, and peevishly asks, _"Whatever possessed you to go skulking about with a knife like that, anyway?"  
_

I look at the floor and shrug. I hate being scolded, especially when I know it's probably deserved. _"I...well, it just seemed like a good idea at the time... my nerves are a little stretched, you know?_ " I tell him. _"From being cooped up too long, and from -- Hey, did Anthea tell you what happened Thursday night?"_

He nods circumspectly. _"Yes, she gave me a full report."_

_"Was it useful, what I found out? She didn't say if it was or not."_

Mycroft takes in a long breath. Delaying. Letting it out. Delaying more. Finally, he says, _"I don't want to encourage you in playing spy games. It's dangerous, and you are eventually going to get hurt, something I'd prefer to avoid."_

I narrow my eyes at him. _"So, it was useful intelligence, but you don't want to tell me so because it'll encourage me to do more?"_ Why doesn't he just lie to me, then, and say they already knew all that stuff, I wasted my time? Why admit it to me without admitting it?

 In answer, he just raises his eyebrows warningly, and my next retort is on my lips -- but I ought to be on the clock, here. I'm supposed to be working, not demanding answers for my own satisfaction. Besides, there's more than one kind of satisfaction... 

 So I let it go, for now. _"Okay, whatever. You're here, it's all good. We kind of got off on the wrong foot -- maybe we should just do a reboot?_ " I wait for a few heartbeats, but he doesn't answer, he just regards me with kind of a remote expression. Hmm. I sway slowly toward him, and as I move deliberately into his personal space, Mycroft tilts his chin up further, an exaggerated show of confidence. He's also biting his tongue, though; anxious. Dilated pupils; desire. What a mixed bag of signals! No wonder he's just standing there. I think maybe I need to lead the dance today. Carefully.

Even a very domineering man like Mycroft sometimes needs the partner to lead -- but it would be a mistake to automatically assume that he wants to be dominated. That may be the case sometimes for some people, but more often than not, he just needs to not have to take the initiative for a while. He wants to go with the flow, and it's up to me to provide a flow for him to go with.

I lean my palms against the wall on either side of his head, to show that I won't touch him without permission, and slowly move in for a light kiss, testing. He tilts his chin down slightly and yields to my lips, softening but not seeking. I draw back to look in his eyes for a moment, making sure that I'm on the right track. What I read there is both defensiveness and desire; he doesn't know what the hell he wants right now, does he? Well, then, I may as well head for what I want, and hopefully he'll sort himself out along the way.

I lean in until the whole length of my body is pressed against him, and gently work my lips on his. He's basically pinned against the wall by my body and my mouth, and after a bit I feel his hands emerge from his trouser pockets to glide along the curve of my hips, stroking the smooth fabric, and a bulge begins to grow firm against my groin. Yeah, Mr. Holmes likes satin quite a lot.

I open my mouth to let my tongue play lightly along his closed lips, then I feel them part slightly, an invitation that I gladly accept, my tongue moving to explore the contours of his -- and then there is a loud noise from somewhere between the press of our bodies, a deep rumbling growl from somebody's tum, and it wasn't mine! I stifle a giggle, and keep on kissing deeply, subtly grinding against him, reveling in the feel of his desire for me rising...

And there is another, louder subterranean rumble, and this time I can actually feel the vibration of it against my own stomach. Good grief! It's so incongruous, I collapse against him, giggling madly. Sighing, he stoically waits for me to recover; he doesn't seem embarrassed, he just doesn't seem to think it's funny.

 _"Pears._ " Mycroft gravely accuses. _"You taste of pears."_

_"Are you hungry, then?"_

" _Obviously. I had no time for breakfast, and no appetite for Sunday lunch at the Ritz. After seeing everyone off, the rest of the afternoon has been quite full-on."_

I draw back slightly so I can look him full in the face. _"Then go eat, you silly man! No wonder you're distracted, you probably have low blood-sugar._ " I move away a bit further, relinquishing my hold on him. _"You're not going to be much use to me if you pass out in the middle of everything, you know. You could raid the kitchen, the cupboard certainly isn't bare...."_

He wrinkles his nose. _"I don't feel like cooking tonight."_

_"Well, I'd offer to make you something but --"_

His eyes fly wide in alarm. _"God, no!"_

I burst out laughing at that. _"Well, then, I'm sure you can locate a restaurant serving acceptable food out there somewhere. Go! I'll be here, another hour or two isn't going to make any difference to me."_ Well, actually, it does, more waiting is the last thing I want -- but I'd rather wait a little longer for an excellent evening than to have a disappointing one right away. Low blood sugar can drastically affect male performance.

Then Mycroft does the completely unexpected; he blurts out, _"Come with me."_

Caught unawares, I hesitate, and he misreads my hesitation, his eyes flicking away from mine. " _\-- or, perhaps you'd rather not. I've been told I'm a poor companion at the table..."_

 _"I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much,_ " I pronounce solemnly. _"We're not exactly spoilt for choice on a Sunday evening, though. Do you have some place in mind?"_

Still not looking at me, he nods and says absently, _"I sometimes rather enjoy the Reading Room at Claridges..."_

Figures! The upper end of the upper end; he doesn't half like his luxuries, doesn't he? I guess I should be flattered, since that includes me. The thought curves my lips in a wry grin, and I tell him, _"Great! Me, too."_

His eyes shift to my face and he frowns; at first I think that he doesn't believe that I frequent places like that, but then I realize that he's digesting the fact that if I've been there, it was likely with a client. _"Very well, then,_ " he says thoughtfully, _"Very well."_ His hands are still resting on my hips, and he glides his fingertips around in small circles over the sleek satin. _"This is a delicious frock, but hardly suitable, I'm afraid. You'll have to change."_

 _"Not a problem. Give me, say, fifteen minutes?"_ He nods, and I bound away, taking the stairs two at a time. Woo-hoo! He's taking me out, and it's not to a damned morgue!

Claridges for an early Sunday dinner would call for something elegant but relaxed. I try on two or three outfits in quick succession, but everything is either too dressy or too revealing. I eye my new Sui, but it's not quite right -- then I remember one of the nice things I found at the same shopping trip, a pale gold, swishy silk number that is very bare and strappy on top, but it came with a self-embroidered bolero that makes it considerably more demure. Yes, and yes. I look very casually elegant.

Suspenders and sheer stockings, then a quick check of the hair and makeup, both fine -- okay, just a little more eyeliner, a little light lipstick -- and I slip a wide cuff bracelet on my right wrist, to cover the red welt still rising there. I never would have believed that languorous Mycroft could move so fast! It was almost worth the whack on the wrist just to see it.

When I get downstairs, Mycroft is at the sitting-room window, speaking quietly on his mobile. I hang back where I am at the foot of the stairs and wait, giving him as much privacy as I can. That's a change! I can't help but laugh at myself. I'm still damned curious, but it's not overriding my manners so much any more. Besides, since we are going out, I might get to ask him a few questions, and he might be feeling genial enough to even furnish some answers.

When he's done with the call, I twirl around for inspection, and my outfit passes muster with a satisfied nod, although he still has to fuss until I am immaculate. I stand patiently, feeling more _objet d'art_ than anything else.

Finally walking out of the flat and into the summer evening feels SO good! To tell the truth, I'm a little giddy with it, although I try to tone it down and not get silly. Some people find youthful high spirits charming, some find it annoying; I'm not sure yet which camp Mycroft falls into, although I suspect the latter. I feel like he's side-eyeing me curiously as we leave the flat, with me doing my best to stay quiet and refined and not bounce all over the place.

The car that comes to collect us is a black Mercedes, and I don't recognize the driver, so I reckon it's a commercial hire and not one of his staff. I'm good with that; I'd just as soon not have Anthea driving us around tonight. That would feel kind of awkward to me.

Mycroft hasn't said a word since he got off the phone back at the flat, but he's also not fidgeting at all -- oops, make that hardly at all. He's absently twisting the heavy gold ring on his right hand around in a very subtle motion, a barely-perceptible slow rolling. He seems more thoughtful than twitchy.

It's a short drive to Mayfair, and we're walking in the door in almost no time. Art Deco is one of those things you either love or loathe, and personally, I love it; I think it's fun, all that glamour and lavish ornament. Claridges kind of distills the quintessence of Art Deco -- everywhere you turn is glamourous and elegant and just _so_. I certainly didn't grow up around places like this, and it would be easy to get flustered by it, but at the end of the day, it's just a hotel -- and I know hotels.

And this hotel knows Mycroft. The maitre d' bows and says, _"This way, sir,"_ before even opens his mouth, and leads us himself through the main restaurant, the Foyer, to reach the more secluded Reading Room. Even on a Sunday the Foyer is lively with a pianist playing light jazz for a small, but appreciative, crowd of diners; judging from the multilingual buzz, many of them are guests of the hotel.

On our trajectory I catch the glance of a familiar face; 'Mr. Jacobs,' the foodie who likes to lecture, looks up as we glide past and smiles at me in recognition, so I give him the requisite discreet smile and nod. I notice that the pretty brunette escort that shares his table wears a very familiar look of barely-concealed boredom. I feel for her. As poor a dinner companion as Mycroft might be, he can't be more tedious than Mr. Jacobs!

The Reading Room is like a very large alcove attached the the Foyer, and feels much more isolated than it actually is. Mycroft has arranged for us to have a little table in the quietest corner of this quiet dining room, seated on padded armchairs. There's no music over here, only the distant tinkle of the jazz piano from the main restaurant. The plush carpeting on the floor muffles the sounds of the servers' steps, and even the murmur of the other diners in here seems very far away. It's as quiet and secluded as you can get in a public restaurant, I think, and very posh and comfortable. Very Mycroft.

Once we are seated, I look around for a menu, but there are none to be seen; I point this out, and Mycroft tells me serenely that everything is already taken care of.

My impulse is to chide him for not even giving me a chance to look at the menu -- he obviously ordered when he called in our reservation while I was getting dressed -- but I restrain myself, remembering that this isn't really a date, this is a GFE, and he has every right to order what he wants to; although if I don't like it, I'm not gonna eat it.

He seems disinclined to talk, so I follow his cue and stay silent, although I could easily think of quite a few topics I'd like to get into. I'll wait until the wine comes and see if a little of that will help to make him more talkative, and amuse myself in the meantime with some people-watching. There are maybe six tables total over here, and three besides ours are occupied; one by a lone diner, one nearby us seats an older couple, and the banquette seating in the middle of the room has four Korean businessmen speaking quietly amongst themselves.

It's really interesting to notice the differences in body language between people of different cultures, and I'm surreptitiously studying the Koreans, when Mycroft quietly murmurs, _"They're talking about the investment banker that they met with today, comparing notes...evaluating their chances of securing the loan they need... And,_ " he continues, completely deadpan, _"....one of them rather fancies the very beautiful, tall blond woman at the table in the corner...he's certain she is interested as well, because she keeps glancing over at him...."_

I can feel my cheeks flush. _"Stop teasing!"_

He looks slightly affronted at the suggestion. _"I assure you, that is a literal translation. You should learn Korean, it's not especially difficult."_

 _"Nor especially easy._ " I avoid looking at the businessmen any further, and let my gaze stray out through the pillars separating us from the main restaurant.

 _"How many?_ " Mycroft murmurs, and I'm not sure if he's speaking to me or not.

I focus my gaze back on him. _"I beg your pardon?"_

 _"I mean,"_ and his eyes sweep the dining room here, and the glimpses of the larger one beyond, " _How many of the patrons here do you...know?"_

Ah, he noticed the look that 'Mr. Jacobs' gave me. " _Just the one,"_ I lie with a little shrug -- in the other room I saw two other men that I have been with at one time or another, but only Mr. Jacobs acknowledged me.

Mycroft twitches his lips into a fake smile and narrows his eyes; he knows I'm lying to him, but honestly, it's none of his business. I'm just about to point out to him that this is not a healthy line of enquiry when the sommelier arrives with the wine, and Mycroft becomes completely engaged in the process of the bottle being presented, opened, tasted, and evaluated. I can tell this is no mere formality; the sommelier's look of relief is genuine when Mycroft pronounces the bottle good.

The sommelier presents the bottle for my permission before he pours for me, and I grace him with a charming smile and present my glass. Whatever the hell it is, is fine with me. Wine appreciation was part of the etiquette course that the Agency put me through when I was hired, and I passed with adequate marks, but it's just not my passion. Mycroft, on the other hand, seems practically humming with pleasure as he savors his first sips.

After a few minutes of silent appreciation, he begins to wax lyrical about this vintage, giving me a lecture worthy of Mr. Jacobs on the climatic influences of 2002 on Bordeaux grapes in general and this _cru_  in particular, and why it's such a bold choice as a pairing for the meal. Then he stops abruptly, with a slight frown. _"This is irrelevant to you, isn't it?"_

I smile into my wine as I take another sip. _"Yep. I could care less. Although, it does taste very nice, and I'm glad that you're pleased with it."_ I set down the glass and tell him candidly, _"Of course, I'm supposed to sit here and pretend mightily that I care, and you're supposed to pretend that you don't notice that I'm pretending, but I didn't think you'd mind skipping all that."_

He contemplates the glass in his hand; it certainly is a very pretty colour, a glowing ruby red. _"We are in agreement there, Angelica, I would prefer to discard such pretense. However,_ " he appreciatively inhales the aroma of the wine, _"It is a pity that you are unable to appreciate good wine; it's one of life's great pleasures._ "

Okay, I can't let that slide. _"There's a fairly enormous difference between 'unable to' and 'doesn't care to,' Mycroft. The finer points of wine are no more interesting to me than the finer points of any other esoteric knowledge base, like... Afghan hound bloodlines or something silly like that. I could discern it if I cared to, but I don't."_

Mycroft seems oddly intrigued by what I just said. He puts his wine glass down to lean forward, gazing at me across the table curiously. _"Why did you bring up Afghan hounds?_ " he asks.

_"It just popped into my head. I was searching for an example of something that some other people care quite a lot about, and I don't at all. Why? What's wrong with Afghan hounds?"_

He takes up his glass again, lounging back into his padded armchair and giving me a speculative look. _"Nothing. Nothing at all. What exposure have you had to them?"_

 _"Dog shows._ " I reply promptly. _"My auntie raised and showed bulldogs, and when Sara and I lived with her, we went to the big all-breed shows with her to help handle the dogs. I got to know all sorts, more than I ever wanted to. So, why is it remarkable that I would bring up Afghan hounds?"_

He imperceptibly inclines his head. _"Because the man and his wife sitting at the next table keep at least two of them."_

I glance over at the elderly couple quietly finishing their meal. _"Oh, you know them?"_ I ask Mycroft.

 _"No. I don't need to."_ He sips his wine, savoring it.

_"So, you can tell just by looking at them that they keep a certain kind of dog?"_

_"And a great deal more that I'd rather not go into."_

The waiter unobtrusively slides our starters in front of us then, and I am quite disappointed; it's a little foie gras terrine, with cherries in it, of all things. I'm sure it's amazing, if you like that sort of thing, but no matter how you dress it up I don't do liver. Mycroft is entranced, though, and smiles with pleased anticipation.

He savors the foie gras with the same blissful absorption that he did the wine, and I leave him to his enjoyment, nibbling some very nice, fresh, crusty bread as I side-eye the couple next to us. How can he tell just by looking at the people what kind of dogs they keep? There's nothing extraordinary about either of them; typical well-off oldies, the man is wearing a navy sport jacket and trousers; the woman, dark brown slacks and a frilly cream blouse, lots of gold jewelry, and a little too much makeup for her age. Her hair is also too dark; she should be having her colourist gradually lighten it out to grey...the poor woman is hanging onto middle-age with both hands, but it's slipping away from her...

 _"Look at their trouser legs,"_ Mycroft murmurs. Oh! And there it is. Dog hair. Not a lot, but it's there, long strands of it.

I glance over at Mycroft, who gives me a little satisfied nod; I have the distinct feeling of being patted on the head. So, he noticed the traces of dog hair because he scrutinized them for it? That's fairly odd.

 _"So, do you notice everything,"_ I ask him, _"Or only pet hair?"_

He leans forward and says emphatically, _"Everything."_

 _"Literally, everything?"_ I'm having a hard time believing that. He's probably exaggerating a bit.

 _"Everything, all the time. Literally."_ He has stopped eating, halfway through his terrine, and is focused intently on me. _"It's a habit I formed very long ago...some habits become ingrained, when begun so young."_

 _"It's kind of a strange habit._ "

Mycroft's eyes dart down, and he starts talking to the salt shaker. _"It grew out of a technique my mother taught me, when I would become...distraught, to focus on the details of the surrounding environment, and to organize those details into patterns of logic. It helps to calm the mind, you see, much more grounding than working equations, although I think that Mummy eventually regretted teaching me to do deductions. Sherlock and I would..."_ Mycroft looks up from his conversation with the salt shaker and blinks. _"You must be frightfully bored with all this_." He picks up his fork and busies himself with his tiny dish of mashed liver.

I sip my wine thoughtfully and reach for another slice of excellent bread. _"I'm not bored at all, actually. That's pretty awesome, that your mum was able to teach you self-management skills like that when you needed them."_

Mycroft looks up at me, wineglass halted in mid-air. _"My mother is an exceptional person,_ " he says frankly. _"Occasionally trying, but exceptional."_

Impulsively, I tilt my wineglass across the little table and touch it lightly against his. _"To Mrs. Holmes."_

His eyebrows raised in surprise, Mycroft echoes my impromptu toast, then glances down at my untouched plate. _"You haven't sampled your foie gras yet. You should, it's excellent here."_

I shake my head. _"No, thank you. I don't care to have any."_

 _"Because it's inhumane?"_ He asks condescendingly.

_"No, because it's liver. I don't like liver. You should've asked me."_

He doesn't reply, but from his expression I gather that he thinks it's rather more my fault for not liking it than his for ordering it. I leave him to enjoy the rest of his nasty liver. I really do hope that the next course is something edible.

Afghan hounds. It's got to be a coincidence, that I brought them up. What else? It's not like I go around making deductions about people like he does...

 _"Most people see, but they do not observe._ " Mycroft comments as if he's read my thoughts, and dabs his lips with his serviette. _"However, there are a few who observe because it's their nature, but without training the observations usually stay at the level of the subconscious, coming to attention only as 'hunches' or 'a gut feeling', or perhaps an odd impulse or stray word or reference--"_

_"--like my mentioning Afghan hounds...?"_

_"Yes."_ He pauses, lowers his voice even further. _"You know things sometimes, don't you? You simply know, and can't explain why?"_

I nod, not daring to look at him straight on. I don't hardly even admit this to myself, much less talk about it to other people. I have dim memories of it getting me into trouble.

He presses on, relentless. " _The problem is, Angelica, that you've learned to doubt and deny your abilities. You are capable of far more than you think you are."_

The waiter comes to clear the table for the next course, so I just stare at the crisp white linen tablecloth, feeling Mycroft looking at me. What is he seeing? For the first time I can recall, I'm not enjoying being looked at.

When the waiter is gone, I finally glance up into his eyes and ask quietly, _"Is that why you like to...look, you know, at the beginning of a session? Because you're deducing things about the person?"_

The question doesn't seem to embarrass him at all; I didn't think it would. _"No, not really,"_ he answers evenly. _"I simply...appreciate beauty. It's an aesthetic experience I crave, but not one I can indulge without making special arrangements. It's not polite to stare, you know,"_ he says with a wry look.

The waiters begin flitting around the table then like silent, smiling ghosts bringing food. The plates that they slide down in front of us have what look like grilled midget lobsters on them, with braised slices of fennel and apple.

 _"I trust that you eat shellfish?"_ Mycroft asks archly.

 _"Yes, I do."_ I pick up the long, slender fork provided and dig in, grateful that the tails are already split open.

Mycroft does likewise, warming up for a lecture " _These are not common prawns,"_ he informs me.

 _"I know. They're langoustine, or scampi, 'Nephrops norvegicus.'"_ Thank you, Mr. Jacobs! _"I'm not a complete Philistine,_  
 _you know._ " Mycroft just raises his eyebrows and doesn't answer that at all. Probably just as well.

We eat. Mycroft is once again nearly humming with obvious pleasure -- his manners are impeccable, of course, whilst I am struggling to not dribble down my chin with the seasoned butter bathing the succulent scampi.

After a long, companionable silence, I decide to chance a personal question. Something he said earlier piqued my curiosity; the worst he can do is tell me to piss off, right? _"Mycroft, forgive me if this is too personal, but why did your mum have to teach you self-management skills? Why were you distraught?"_

It makes me feel kind of awkward when he doesn't answer; his silence seems to be politely indicating that I should piss off. After he has finished enjoying the entree, however, he fastidiously dabs his mouth and leans back, wineglass in hand, saying, _"Because, Angelica, my brain simply doesn't slow down on it's own. Never has. Disciplined application of the faculties is my salvation. When that fails, sensory stimulation is a crude but effective means to slow things down to manageable levels."_

That's certainly more of an answer than I anticipated, especially coming minutes after I asked the question -- I have to pause and concentrate to take it all in. _"So...your mind kind of races madly, unless you focus it on something engrossing?"_ He nods encouragingly, so I go on. _"When that fails, sensory stimulation..._ " I glance down at the plate of empty shells on the table. _"Right, food! And...music?_ " Again he nods. _"And._.." Here I have to laugh. _"And me!"_

Mycroft's lips curve in a smile as he inclines his head graciously. Damn, but that explains a lot. I mull it over as the waiters materialize again and clear for the next course, which turns out to be small platters of various smelly cheeses and some really delectable fruits, paired with a small glass of dessert wine. There's no Swiss, so I don't touch the cheese, but the sliced pear is every bit as good as the one that tempted me in the kitchen at home.

When the staff have once more vanished, I lean forward and ask Mycroft _"Okay, the scientist in me has to know, does the sensory stimulation have to be pleasurable?"_

A shadow passes over his face, and once again I'm sure he's not going to answer, but he does. _"No. Actually, in some ways pain works better. But that is not a wise path,_ " he says simply, and busies himself with his cheese. End of discussion.

I nibble at my fruit and watch some new diners being seated, mulling over what he's just revealed and trying to imagine what it might be to live inside that head of his -- and I can't, I really can't. No wonder he's a little odd.

Mycroft interrupts my reverie with a question. _"Since we are on personal topics, I trust you will forgive me for asking about your mother?"_

 _"Sure, go ahead._ " I shrug.

 _"Tell me, please, how did she die?_ "

 _"She went to hospital."_ I toy with my little wineglass, watching the light shimmer through it. It's the same colour as my dress, very pretty.

 _"Yes, but why did she go to hospital? What happened?"_ he insists.

I shrug again, and shake my head. _"I don't really know. They told me that there had been an accident. I was very young, only seven years old, so I don't remember much."_

 _"Interesting,"_ is his only comment, and he thoughtfully returns to his meal. I'm more than happy to let the subject drop, it's not really good dinner conversation.

Pausing for a sip of wine, Mycroft glances over at my platter and remarks, _"You might at least try some."_

I reach for another juicy grape. _"Nope. I don't care for smelly cheeses, thank you."_

He shakes his head with a sigh, _"Carl Jung was quite right. 'In der Regel ist eine schöne Frau eine schrecklech Enttäuschung.'"_

 _" 'As a rule, a beautiful woman is a terrible disappointment,' "_ I translate archly, reaching for my wine. _"I suppose that would depend on what your expectations are, and his were obviously unrealistic. That's fairly common."_ Mycroft winces at my emphasis on the word 'common.' I swirl the golden stuff -- it's probably a sauterne, but I don't really care what it's called, it's good -- around in my glass and watch the 'legs' it makes as it runs down the inside. _"People like to hang all sorts of things on physical beauty, don't they? All kinds of expectations. But looking like a heavenly creature doesn't mean you actually are one. At the end of the day, we're all just human beings, with just as many flaws as strengths, just as much animal as angel."_

Mycroft gives me a thoughtful look. _"Your occupation has certainly given you an unusually candid view of human nature_."

I shake my head, _"No, I started out that way; it's one of the reasons that escort work appealed to me."_

Finished with his plate, he leans back comfortably with rest of his wine. _"The other reasons no doubt having to do with an inclination toward indolence,"_ he observes smugly.

 _"Indolence?"_ I'm kind of offended by that, but Mycroft chuckles at my indignation.

 _"I only recognize it because I share the same general inclination."_ He smiles and sips his wine.

_"Still, that bothers me. You really think me indolent? That I work as an escort because I'm too lazy to do anything else?"_

_"If you would have me be brutally honest about it, yes."_

I huff in disbelief; this is one of those things that really gets me going. I lean closer to him so I can lower my voice. _"Well, let me be brutally honest with you, then. You have absolutely no idea whatsoever how much work it is to be everyone's fantasy. Do you think a body like this just happens by accident? Sure, the basic genetics are there, but I have to work out regularly to keep toned and cut, and I have to constantly watch what I eat. Grooming takes loads of time and money, to make sure that every inch of me is as perfect as I can get it, all the time. I have to study and memorize current events and news and social trends every single day, whether or not I'm interested, so that I'm prepared to provide interesting conversation._

 _"And all that's the background stuff, before I even meet with a client. When I'm on the job, I'm constantly 'on;'  it's like doing improv theatre performances night after night, for an audience of one. And, here's the clincher: I make good money for my performances because I have extremely high market value right now, but the performance itself erodes that value."_ I lean back with a sigh, wondering if he'll get it -- so few people do. _"Even if they enjoy the work like I do, most escorts don't stay in it for more than a few years if they have a choice; the social and emotional costs are too high."_ I could say more, a lot more, but he's looking a little stunned, so I stop. _"Sorry,"_ I add in a small voice. _"I guess this isn't a conversation that we should be having, is it?"_

Mycroft shakes his head slowly. _"Possibly not, although I've never been terribly good at gauging these things."_ He frowns, considering, and says quietly, _"Angelica, if you feel you need more compensation--"_

 _"No!"_ Oops, I didn't mean that to come out so loudly! _"No."_ I repeat more quietly _. "I didn't mean to insinuate that at all. I just get really defensive when people accuse me of being lazy! It really bothers me._ " I sigh, and bite my lip. _"Of course, I have to admit that if there were no germ of truth in it at all, I probably wouldn't be offended."_ I look down at the starched white linen with a sinking feeling. _"The fact that it really bothers me to be called lazy probably means that I really am lazy, doesn't it?"_

_"I'm afraid so."_

_"Damn."_

I put my little wineglass back on the table even though it's not completely empty; after three glasses and not too much to eat, my head is getting a bit fuzzy. The waiters manifest to clear the table for the last time; they were probably watching for a lull in the intense conversation. Mycroft looks like he is rising to leave, so I gather my evening bag and make ready to follow, but he holds up a hand.

_"Wait here, please, I need to speak with the concierge for a moment."_

_"How about I visit the ladies' room while you visit the concierge? I'll meet you in the lobby."_ He gives me a brusque nod, and away we both go. Standing up, I realize that I am even more buzzed than I thought, but I manage to not wobble or trip as I navigate to the loos.

The facilities are as ridiculously lavish as the rest of the hotel, which I thoroughly enjoy, and primping in front of the huge, gilded mirror makes me feel like a movie star. I automatically start to freshen my lipstick, but decide to tap on a little clear gloss instead; if I have my way, we are headed for an intense snog session, and lipstick just makes a mess. I give myself one last admiring look in the mirror, feeling like a tawny lioness. _Rawr!_

The lobby isn't exactly thronging, and it's easy to spot my companion across the black-and-white marble expanse. Mycroft is speaking with a short, round man in a dapper tux with a gleaming gold name-plate on his lapel; the concierge's dark face flashes with a bright smile as he sees me approach, and bows in my direction and to Mycroft before withdrawing.

Mycroft turns and offers me his arm, which I take with a broad smile, saying, " _Let's go!"_ I'm trying to not dance with happy anticipation, but it's difficult.

His lips quirk slightly as he shakes his head. Instead of leading me to the desk to claim my wrap and his umbrella, Mycroft escorts me across the lobby to one of the hotel's two lifts, and pushes the call button. I look at him in surprise. _"The flat is less than ten minutes away,_ " I murmur. " _Are you sure?"_

 _"I am sure,_ " he answers, and flips his pocket watch out to glance at the time, nodding. I feel a weird prickle go up my back, but I'm more concerned at the moment with whether or not I've remembered to restock the supply of condoms in the inner pocket of my evening bag. The escort's first rule is, Be Prepared, and I usually am, but I left in such a fluster tonight that I don't remember checking. Damn. I hope he's prepared; maybe that's what he had to see the concierge about? Then the lift bell dings, and the prickle goes from my spine all the way up my scalp. God, I hate lifts; why aren't we taking the stairs?


	24. "Loss and possession, death and life are one, There falls no shadow where there shines no sun." ~ Hilaire Belloc

When the lift's paneled oak doors have rumbled open, I notice that the inside is small, smaller than most modern ones. It's vintage, like the rest of the hotel, and I can't help but wonder if the workings are vintage as well; probably not. In fact, I absolutely doubt it, because it wouldn't be safe. And of course this is safe.

I hesitate on the threshold between the lift car and the floor -- that's the hardest part, to step over that. I look over at Mycroft, but his face is solemn and still, waiting to see what I'll do. Right. I'm on the verge of a panic, but I don't want to show it. I take a deep breath. C'mon, Angelica, it's not such a big deal. There are only six or seven floors in this old place, so the ride will be mercifully short, and when we get where we're going, there will be a lovely shagging for you...c'mon, legs, start moving....

I adjust the skinny strap of my evening bag over my shoulder, grip Mycroft's arm a little tighter, and step across into the lift. He moves with me, neither holding me back nor leading me in. I let out the breath I had been holding, and try to smile, but it's forced. I feel boxed in, trapped. This is a really tiny lift, you could hardly pack half a dozen people in it along with the liftman -- if there were one. _"Where is the liftman?"_ I ask out loud.

 _"No doubt he is on break."_ Mycroft pushes the button for the fifth floor, the doors close, and the contraption whirrs smoothly upwards. I fix my eyes on the ornate strip of lighted numbers above the doors, intending to use the numbers flickering on and off to keep myself focussed on something neutral -- but Mycroft has other ideas.

Without a word, he turns and presses me against the wall, his splayed fingers gripping my bum, his mouth greedily covering mine. Hell, yeah, that is one way to talk me out of a panic attack! It doesn't work completely, because I can feel the anxiety still humming through my stomach, but I'm certainly distracted.

And he is not clasping my wrists or restraining my arms behind me -- I am at a loss as to what to do with my hands. I don't want to spoil things by randomly touching him, and I don't want to interrupt the delicious spontaneity of this by asking what I should do. I settle for resting my arms on the top of his shoulders, dangling my hands out of harm's way.

The numbers ding by slowly as the ancient lift rises, but I'm not really hearing them. Mycroft and I are snogging for all we're worth. He tastes to me of pears and wine and cheese and loveliness, a sensuous medley that I can't get enough of. He pins me to the wall, stretched between his body and his lips, and I think I could come right then and there, just from this alone, I'm just on that edge--

Then the lift lurches hard, once, and groans to a complete halt. I stiffen against him in alarm, but Mycroft carries on as if this is nothing, that the lift hasn't just stopped and we aren't suspended by a slender cable god only knows how many meters from certain death. I finally tear my lips away from his and gasp out, _"It's stopped! Something's wrong!_ " He takes the opportunity to run his teeth and lips along the side of my neck, rimming my ear delicately with his tongue. I give a shuddering moan, but still half-heartedly try to squirm free. _"Let go! The lift has stopped."_

 _"Yes,"_ he whispers in my ear. " _Quite conveniently, don't you think?"_ And he gently applies his teeth to my earlobe, temporarily robbing me of the power of speech.

I'm so turned on that my wits are a little slow to gather, but fear trumps sex as a basic drive, and I pull my head together enough to sputter out, _"Wait, you arranged this?_ "

I should know better; Mycroft admits nothing, ever. I can feel his lips twist into a smile against the skin of my neck as he nuzzles me, but he doesn't answer. " _So, you want to do it right here?"_ I ask. Spontaneous sex in semi-public places just doesn't seem his style, but who knows? I'm not having it in a lift, though. No bloody way.

He comes up for air and looks in my face. _"No. I do not want to do 'it' here. I want to talk."_ His eyes are hard, his mouth set in a thin line, and I am completely confused. He moves one hand up to my breast, cups it gently and begins to roll the nipple around through the cloth, sending shivers through my body, throbbing heat between my legs.

 _"Talk?_ " is all I can say, stupidly. He's not acting like he wants to just have a little chin-wag here.

 _"Yes, talk."_ He puts both hands in a firm grip on my bum, and presses my hips toward him to subtly writhe his hard groin against my dripping mound; we're evenly-matched enough in height for a perfect stand-up fuck...god, that would feel so good! _"Specifically, I want you to talk, Angelica."_ How can he sound so calm?

I swallow. He wants me to talk? Who are you, sir, and what have you done with Mycroft Holmes? _"You want me to talk dirty, like last time?_ " I rasp.

_"No, I want you to tell me about the day your mother died."_

What the fuck? What kind of bloody perv is he? Touch taboo be damned, I work my elbows down until I can leverage my hands against his chest to push him away from me. _"No. No bloody way. That is too much, even for me, Mycroft. No."_

He's a lot stronger than I give him credit for, and hangs on like a limpet. _"You're not leaving this lift until you do. The concierge will not key off the emergency stop until I text him."_

I glare at him, eyeball to eyeball, and glance over his shoulder at the panel of buttons, then up at the corners of the lift. _"The emergency call button has been disabled,"_ he says calmly, _"And there are no security cameras."_ He reaches up to tuck and smooth my hair. " _All I want you to do_ ," he cajoles, _"Is to relate to me the events of that day, in as much sensory detail as you can, whilst I do my best to distract you. That's all."_

_"Why? Is this some kink of yours? Because if it is, your kink is NOT okay!"_

" _No. I have my reasons, but gratification isn't one of them."_ I glare at him, his eyes level calmly back at me. _"I'm aware that it's an odd request, but I shouldn't think it out of bounds."_

I let my head go back against the wall with a soft thud, and shake it back and forth. _"No. I really don't want to."_ Something rises in me that is not just unwilling, but implacably stubborn. _"I'm not going to. I want out of this lift, now."_ Everything in my body is primed toward getting the hell out of here, at any cost; I can feel the panic rising. _"Do you hear me? NOW!"_ I shout in his face, and I don't care that it makes him wince. When I shout, the polished walls of this tiny room suddenly feel like they are falling in, and my heart starts to race. I need to get out, because I know I can't keep myself under control for much longer.

I give it one more try. _"Mycroft. You need to let me out of here, now, please."_ I rein in my trembling voice, pleading. _"If I go ape-shit, I guarantee you are going to get hurt, I am warning you, I can't be held responsible..._.." I swallow hard, and start to cry.

Instead of comforting me, though, Mycroft murmurs, _"Well, then, we do it the hard way_ ," and expertly spins me into an immobilizing hold, one that causes agonizing pain as his long fingers dig deeply into the nerves behind my collar bone. The sudden violence of it, and the pain, throw me into the worst panic attack I think I've ever had; my vision narrows into a long tunnel veiled in red, my body consumed by a mad, shrieking animal -- and me-myself-and-I shrinks into a small wad of consciousness floating up above, watching the dark-haired man in the light suit grapple with a screaming madwoman.

She thrashes and bucks wildly, straining against his arms and trying to kick and bite, each breath a wild simian scream. The man's face is calm and indifferent, his glittering blue eyes as piercing and pitiless as a falcon, although his thin mouth is tightened at the corners with distaste.

The man looks like he begins to tire after a few minutes, and the woman flails free, her teeth finding purchase in his arm, and the screaming halts temporarily as her jaws clamp down. The man curses loudly and long, and goes for a carotid block, causing her to sag for an instant. He uses the opportunity to get her into a tighter hold on the floor of the car, and when she snaps to awareness, she is pinned down, helpless but still keening short screams through raw vocal chords.

I've heard that noise before, only from a smaller throat. My body was pinned then, too, although the man who had his beefy arms wrapped around me was a constable, he had just come from lunch, he smelled of cigarette smoke and onions. He held me so tight I couldn't breathe couldn't run, couldn't run to mummy. She was screaming too but I couldn't see her, I could only see her leg so wrong and so much blood all over. I bit the constable's hand and tasted his blood, but he didn't even shout or anything, he just held on, taking me away, and told me they would take mummy to hospital, they would take her to hospital.

I taste blood again, the metallic tang of it strong in my mouth. I'm on the floor of the lift car, my cheek pressed into scratchy black-and-white carpet. My face is wet with spittle and tears, and possibly blood, although I can't tell for sure. Mycroft is breathing in my ear, but not in that sexy way; he's trying to catch his breath.

As he feels my lungs slow and my muscles relax, he shifts his hold so that it isn't so painful, and asks cautiously, _"Angelica?"_

I nod, to show that I'm back. I feel like I should be crying, but I am exhausted beyond tears _. "We went to the dentist,_ " I whisper. _"He was such a nice man. He would give you a lolly if you were good. Isn't that funny, a dentist who hands out sweets? His office was brand-new, in a brand-new tall building. The lift got stuck, mummy and I were stranded between floors for forever, then they got it half-way down, and got the doors open wide enough...they handed me out first, I had to slide out and down, and daddy's mate Constable Rivers caught me, he held me and the firemen told mummy to slide out, too, and they would catch her and she started to but the electric brakes failed, and the counterweight pulled the car up the rest of the way and her leg was crushed and she screamed and screamed because it hurt and there was blood and she died there. She died there."_ My body is wracked by sudden dry spasms of sobbing, but my mind feels so strangely clear and calm.

As I'm talking, Mycroft slowly, cautiously releases me from the hold. When my sobbing finally subsides a bit, he begins talking about trauma and memory repression and sensory gateways. He goes on and on, softly, as if he's giving a lecture in neuroscience, all the while helping me up to my feet and tidying my clothes and hair for me, laying the strap of my evening bag back over my shoulder. It's all I can do to lean against the wall and keep vertical; I feel dazed and shaking and completely disoriented, like I've just been abruptly woken from a deep sleep. I wish he would shut up, but I reckon talking like that calms him, so I let him drone on uninterrupted. I close my eyes and just let everything wash over me, drained and passive.

I hear him take out his phone, and a moment later the lift gives another terrific jerk and heaves upwards again. I'm numb to everything. The lift slows, I hear the doors rumble open, and he puts one arm firmly around my shoulders and holds onto my elbow with the other, telling me, _"Step this way, now, please._ " I lean my head on his shoulder, eyes half-closed, and let him guide me down the hall; I catch only glimpses of the the soft beige carpet under our feet. Once, he murmurs apologetically to passersby, _"Poor girl has suddenly taken quite ill, I'm afraid."_ When we stop, I hear the quiet jingle of a key, and a door being opened.

Mycroft immediately guides me to the bathroom, saying, _"Some cool water would not go amiss, I think,"_ as he gently propels me inside and closes the door behind me. I force myself to open my eyes fully; the bathroom is tiny but dapper and luxurious, all black-and-white marble and beveled mirrors. I kick off my shoes and turn to the sink to run the taps, but hesitate to look in the bright mirror above it. I know I'm a makeup-smeared mess right now, and I'm embarrassed that people saw me like this.

When the water runs warm, I finally raise my eyes to the mirror... and start to cry. Sara has mummy's hair and eyes, but I have her face. I didn't know that. I grew up to look just like her and didn't even know it. I didn't remember what she looked like, and photographs of her never seemed real to me. I reach out to trace the cheek of the woman in the mirror, but the glass is cold and hard under my fingers. No wonder daddy didn't want me around; I must have been a constant reminder of his loss.

I grip the edge of the lavatory, the black marble cool under my palms, and let my tears fall into the basin, watching the water swirl them around and away. It takes a little while, but they eventually stop, and I'm able to look at my reflection again and only see myself. I objectively assess the damage; just the usual raccoon-eyes from smeared makeup, and my lower lip is swollen and tender, looks like a little cut on the inside. I might have bitten myself in my frenzy, I don't know, but that's probably where the taste of blood came from.

I unzip the little evening bag over my shoulder and pull out a face-cleanser towelette to tidy up around my eyes, then bathe my face again and again in the running water. It feels good. Dried off, and my hair seen to, I'm as presentable as it's getting right now, given my red, swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks.

When I come out of the bathroom, Mycroft is standing by the tall windows that dominate one side of the room, looking through the sheer white curtains at the traffic on the street below. In the fading sunset light, I can see that he's taken off coat and waistcoat and tie, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He's talking quietly on the phone, but pauses when I come out and turns toward me. _"More later,_ " he says, and ends the call, putting the phone down on a little round table between two over-stuffed upholstered armchairs.

He looks guarded, but curious. The fingers of one hand begin to tap imperceptibly against his leg, and he slips that hand into his pocket, and waits. I feel so odd, standing there. Almost high, but numbed as well, it's not like anything I've ever felt before. It's the sharp awareness and well-being of cocaine, but the relaxed mellow of pot, tossed together with overtones of every upper and downer I ever sampled. Emotional catharsis -- man, if they could bottle it, I don't know if anyone would take anything else.

I swallow, and ask him, _"Why?"_ My voice sounds odd in my ears, and it's not just my state of mind; my throat is raw, it even hurts a little to talk. " _Why did you do that?"_ I rasp out.

 _"It needed to be done,"_ he seems a little surprised, as if I had asked why he took the rubbish to the bin. _"The repressed memories were obviously interfering with your effectiveness; it takes a tremendous amount of energy to keep something like that below the level of conscious awareness. Now that you are free of it, you will have a great deal more mental energy and focus."_ He adds smugly, _"You'll thank me later."_

 _"Who the hell do you think you are?"_ My voice has stopped working for the moment so I have to whisper, but I know he can hear me loud and clear." _I didn't ask for that,_ " I move nearer, furious and close to tears again. _"You had no right!"_

My anger doesn't seem to disturb him one bit. _"I look after what's mine,_ " he reminds me, and adds with only a trace of mockery _, "If that's not what you wanted, you shouldn't have chosen me."_

The twilight glowing through the huge window behind him is fading fast, and in the shadows his eyes are dark and inky, his features blurred. I want to deny it, to remind him that HE chose ME, but at that moment I can see to the bottom of myself so clearly that it hurts. It's true. Steen was right. I've been trying from the first to get Mycroft to care about me, to act like I matter to him. I wanted him, I courted him, and there he is....

Be careful what you wish for.

I stand there swaying for a moment, then totter to the enormous bed and sit down on it, tossing my evening bag to the nightstand and pulling one of the pillows over to hug against my stomach. I open my mouth but don't know what to say, so I just topple over to curl around my pillow and rest my cheek on the white satin coverlet. Mycroft watches me dispassionately, then comes over to turn on one of the bedside lamps; as he reaches out and snaps the light on, I notice a large, purpling mark on the underside of his forearm, a familiar-looking semicircle. It's not a nice thing, but it makes me happy to see it in ways that I don't even want to acknowledge.

He notices my gaze, of course, and comments, _"I believe that's called a 'pay-back' isn't it?_ " He winces slightly as he runs a finger over the mark. _"Human bites can be frightful things, but fortunately it didn't break the skin, or even mar the fabric of my sleeve. I would have hated to see that suit ruined; it's nearly new, and I rather like it."_

_"I warned you that you were going to get hurt."_

I can't keep the smugness out of my voice, and he looks surprised. _"Aren't you going to apologize?"_

_"No."_

He smiles faintly down at me. _"There may be hope for you yet."_

I grunt and turn my face toward the white satin. It feels nice and cool and smooth on my cheeks. I can hear him moving away. _"I think a mild sedative would do you some good. Do you drink Scotch?"_ he asks.

 _"Lots of ice, and a splash of sparkling water,"_ I say into the bed. He hears me, because I hear a tut-tutting from the other side of the room, where there is a liquor cabinet and small fridge.

 _"Diluted and cold, in other words. Not quite ruined, but close. Here, sit up._ " A tinkling glass tumbler is held over my head, like you'd offer a sweet to a recalcitrant child. I fold my legs under me and sit up; Mycroft hands me the tumbler and goes to pour himself one as well.

The Scotch is smooth and smoky, only burning a little as it goes down my raw throat. I close my eyes to savour the warm glow that spreads out from my stomach. It really does feel soothing, taking the edge off the rawness. I take a few more swallows, and look up to see him watching me, evaluating.

_"You seem to be recovering nicely, but it might be advisable for you to stay here for the night. I'll send a car around to take you back to the flat in the morning, say, about 10:00?"_

I shrug. _"Whatever. Although, I'd rather leave when you do."_

He frowns a little, but says, " _As you like."_ Picking up his phone, he thumbs a number with one hand, drink in the other. _"Finish your drink, then,"_ he adds, like I'm a toddler balking at a glass of milk.

 _"Wait, you're going NOW?_ " I can't believe it.

Without looking up from the text he's entering, he says absently _, "Yes, very shortly. I will come by the flat tomorrow evening to check on you."_

_"No! You're not going anywhere! You can't."_

Mycroft looks up. _"I beg your pardon,_ " he says politely, but the look in his eyes is dangerous.

So is mine. I rise from the bed, furious. _"No. This is not acceptable. This is not how you treat people. You don't force a massive emotional release, free up suppressed memories, rearrange my goddamned psyche, and then go waltzing off and leave me alone to deal with it! You don't DO that! It's not okay!"_ I stop, coughing a little from the shouting. _"It's not okay,"_ I repeat. _"I need to not be alone tonight."_

Frowning, he lets out an exasperated breath. _"I wouldn't have thought you were so fragile...well, if you don't want to be alone, I'll have you taken to your sister's flat, I'm sure that she --"_

 _"NO!_ " I really have an urge to throw the tumbler in my hand at his head, but that would be counterproductive, so instead I slam it down on the nightstand, hard enough to bounce some of the ice cubes out of it. _"Damn you, I'm not some pet you can take out for walkies when you feel like it and then kennel for someone else to look after when you don't!_ " He blinks at that. _"You chose to put me through this, Mycroft, it's your responsibility to see it through! You can't always put the dirty jobs off onto other people."_

 _"I have important work to do!"_ he growls, but cancels the text, putting the phone and his empty tumbler down.

Always that, when he wants to run _. "Is there an emergency?"_ I ask, and he shakes his head. _"Is the security of the free world endangered at the moment?"_ He glares at me and doesn't answer. _"Is anybody going to die if you don't go in until tomorrow morning?"_

He screws his eyes shut and sighs. _"I'm simply...not terribly good at this sort of thing, Angel. Trust me, you don't want me to be the one trying to comfort you."_

" _So you avoid anything that you're not terribly good at? That's disappointing_." I settle in on the bed, folding my legs under me once more. I can tell that I got him with the appeal to responsibility -- he's not leaving any time soon.

He gazes out the now-dark window for a moment, then draws the heavy drapes. _"Well, then_." Hands in pockets, he strolls over to the bed where I am curled up. _"What shall we do? Play cards? Watch telly? Perhaps we should *chat*?"_ His voice is brittle with sarcasm, and he's smiling that smile where I can see his back teeth.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this big jerk? I'm not going to be able to out-snark him, so the only thing to do is call him on it. _"I'm not letting you off the hook, no matter how shitty you are to me, so you may as well knock it off._ " His expression changes to a sullen glower. _"Mycroft, I just need not to be alone! It's not such a bizarre request."_

He shakes his head. _"I simply do not understand it. I much prefer to be alone, especially when I am under stress."_

 _"To each their own,_ " I shrug. _"For me, the need for companionship varies. I do tend to want company when I'm upset, though, particularly after I've been brutalized into a temporary mental breakdown. I guess I'm just funny that way._ " I glare up at him. You're not the only one who can lay on the sarcasm, mate.

He scowls, then he rolls his eyes with a resigned sigh. _"Well, what exactly do you need from me, then? Entertainment?_ " He reaches down, and slowly traces his finger along the line of my jaw, outlines the rim of my ear -- then with a deft flick, plucks a coin out of midair. I give a startled laugh.

 _"I knew you had to be a magician,_ " I tell him, watching the silver disk glint in the lamp's soft glow as he tumbles it between his fingers, weaving it so rapidly that the coin seems to have a life of its own as it shimmers back and forth.

 _"I tried quite a number of things to distract my baby brother from his interminable caterwauling_." Mycroft's eyes follow the coin, but it might as well be someone else's hand. He makes it look easy. _"The hands do not forget,_ " he grimaces, and drops the coin into my outstretched palm. It's a 50 pence, but the only way you can tell that is by the seven-sided edge; both faces of the coin are worn shiny and nearly smooth, and what remains of the striking on it is nearly obliterated by a large, off-center hole.

I hold it up between a finger and thumb close to my eye, and peer at Mycroft through the hole. Sara and I used to spy about through holey stones that we found at the beach when mummy would take us there; the fairy stories say that if you look through a holey stone, you can see what's really and truly there, stripped of its glamour. It might work with holey coins, too, because the image I see of Mycroft looks younger, a little scared and unsure. He kind of looks how I feel right now.

I lay the coin in my palm again to peer more closely at it. That's not just a hole, that's a bullet hole. _"Someone was showing off,"_ I remark. _"Was it you?"_

 _"No."_ He shakes his head. _"I'm good, but not that good."_

 _"Where did you get it, then?"_ I ask.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees and his eyes fixed on the coin in my hand. _"Sherlock gave it to me Friday. As a rebuke, although he said it was to remind me that neither of us is infallible. As if I needed reminding."_

 _"Who made the shot?"_ I finger the rough edge where one side got blown out by the passing bullet.

Mycroft shifts his eyes to mine, looking deep but not answering. I can tell he's not going to.

I offer him back the coin, but he shakes his head, and I toss it with a clink onto the nightstand. _"You and Sherlock spoke in person, then. That's progress, isn't it?"_

 _"Of a sort, I suppose, but only if twenty minutes of beastly behavior counts as 'speaking'."_ He pauses, and opens his mouth to say more, but closes it and shakes his head, gazing at the floor. _"I don't understand why they put up with him."_

 _"Probably the same reason they put up with you,"_ I say solemnly. He looks askance at me, but I'm pretty sure that the affronted look is an act; there's no way he can be completely unaware of what a giant pain in the arse he is.

I'd so like to hug him right now -- it would do both of us good -- but looking into his eyes, I have a feeling it wouldn't go over so well. Needing to do _something,_ I impulsively reach out and run a single fingertip down his forearm, slowly tracing from elbow to wrist with the barest touch. His reaction is subtle, just a rapid blink, and a slight catch in his breath.

Emboldened, I do it again, this time delicately trailing two fingers down his arm. His eyelids flutter nearly closed, and he takes a deep shuddering breath. Well, hello there.

I shift myself slightly so I can easily reach across and stroke both his arms at the same time, watching his face carefully. This feels like the right thing to do, but I want to be sure.

The response is gratifying. His eyes are half-closed, mouth slightly open, his body giving little involuntary jerks every now and again. I'm careful to keep the touches light, and always going down. That's one of those little trade secrets that my instructors at the Agency taught me; stroking the skin in the direction of the growth of body hair is calming and arousing, stroking against the direction of growth is stimulating and exciting. As sensitive as Mycroft seems to be, I don't think he would much appreciate it if I went against the grain.

When his responses to the arm-stroking start to level out, it's time to change stimulus. I flit my fingertips up to sides of his neck, and delicately trace the sides of his throat; he obligingly tilts his head back a little, and his mouth opens a little wider, his breathing still interspersed with little gasps. I follow my fingertips with soft kisses, trailing my lips along the curve of his neck and the hard angle of his jaw. His torso subtly arches back, opening further, and I know that I am on the right track.

I roll up onto my knees, and, starting at the hollow at the base of his throat, I run my tongue and lips slowly up the very center, over his windpipe and adam's apple; the vulnerability of this area is exquisite. I round over the point of his chin, and rise slightly up on my knees so I can come down onto his mouth with mine; I don't tease his lips open this time, they are already parted and waiting. I move into him, slowly and deeply, my hands still lightly feathering touches wherever I can reach.

Suddenly, almost violently, he has had enough of going with my flow -- he takes my face in his hands and pulls away from me. I immediately stop touching him, and give him the most wide-eyed innocent gaze I can muster. _"Is something wrong?"_

He doesn't look displeased, just a little exasperated. _"Is sex your answer for everything, Angel?"_

 _"Depends on the question._ " I admit, _"But generally, yes."_

He sighs and shakes his head, but draws my mouth to his once more; this time it is his lips seeking mine, his tongue that gently probes.

He slides his hands to my shoulders and slips the little silken bolero down and off; it falls heedless to the floor, and his fingers quickly find the back zipper on my dress. In less than a minute, the pale golden dress has joined the bolero, and I have shifted over so that I am straddling his thighs, my knees planted wide on either side. He is stroking my hips and arse as we snog, pushing my satin and lace knickers aside so he can finger me, making me drip and squirm. I try to scoot a little higher up on his lap, aiming to grind away a little bit, but he grips my thighs to hold me back. _"No stains on the trousers, please,"_ he murmurs, and I groan a little in frustration.

I run my hands along the smooth leather of the braces over his shoulders. They feel nice, but I've got to get these damned things -- and the trousers attached to them -- off of him soon, preferably _now_. I pluck a little at them, but he reaches up and grasps my fingers again so I can't. _"Not yet,_ " he tells me. _"Undress for me, first."_

I give him one more open-mouthed kiss, then dismount from his knees and take a step or two away from the bed. He stretches out his long legs, and leans back on his hands with a slight smile. I pirouette and prance, taking my time removing my suspenders and stockings, bra and knickers, until I am naked, and then I strike a pose for him -- but looking him straight in the eyes, watching him watch me. I give him a minute to admire the view, then I swiftly kneel between his legs.

Sometimes, you just want to give a bloke head. It's hard to explain, you just do, you crave it. Right now I desperately want more than anything to take the size and the salt of him in my mouth, to make his toes curl with pleasure. I look up into his surprised face and give a gentle kiss to the hard bulge straining against the front of his soft linen trousers. _"May I, please?"_

He swallows, hard, but shakes his head. He pats the bed beside him. _"Back up here. And wait a bit."_

Sighing, I climb back onto the white satin coverlet, and stretch out invitingly on my back. He stands up and gazes at me with that inscrutable smile, then goes about briskly removing and hanging the rest of his clothing.

Watching him disrobe is turning me on even more -- not that he's so sexy about it, but I know what's coming next, and like Pavlov's dog, my juices are flowing. My fingers move down of their own accord, and I tease and stroke myself as I watch Mycroft meticulously remove and fold every stitch of clothing.

When he turns back to the bed, his eyes widen a little at seeing me writhing with pleasure. He lets out a slow breath, and watches me, curious. I give him a languorous smile, asking, _"Haven't you ever watched a woman masturbate?"_ He shakes his head, No, and moves closer for a better look. I close my eyes and move deeper into my personal headspace, knowing exactly where and how to give myself exactly what I want. My writhing has started to turn into undulations and picking up speed, when I feel his hands close around my wrists and pull my fingers away, pinning my arms over my head.

He settles his hips between my thighs, and I open my eyes to find his face inches from mine, eyes burning. He kisses me, tongue delving deeply, then pulls back, his brow furrowed. _"Sorry, I couldn't stand it any longer,"_ he apologizes, and I can feel the rigid length of him against me as he shifts and slides, urgently seeking entrance --

 _"Wait!"_ I shout.

Mycroft flinches. _"What? What is it?"_ He looks faintly alarmed.

I'm having trouble coming up with words at the moment, but I gasp out, _"Durex!"_ That's all I can think of, what we used to call them in high school.

 _"A condom?_ " he says, _"Already seen to."_

 _"Thank god,_ " I breathe, and thrust my hips upward, sheathing him as he bears down on me. We meet each other in midair, my legs straining as I push and grind against him, moaning. For the first time, I don't have to force myself to hold his eyes -- it feels natural that our gaze should lock together as our bodies do.

His hands slide up off my wrists until we are palm-to-palm, fingers intertwined and gripping so hard it hurts. I'm pushing up into him as fiercely as he is ramming down into me, both of us gasping for air as we slam against each other again and again. It's as wild and furious a fuck as I've ever had in my life, and the hoarse cry that rips out of him when he finally comes is sweet to my ears; he's never made a noise that loud or long before.

Before he's even completely spent, I do my roll-over trick. I'm not finished off yet, although I have been hovering in that mind-blowing just-before-orgasm space since he pulled my fingers away. Our hands are still clasped tightly, and he straightens his arms so that I can sit fully upright and ride him deep into me. It only takes a moment of rocking and grinding before I explode over my own edge, throwing my head back and letting loose a primal howl from my raw throat. Somewhere in the back of my mind, some shred of consciousness is rather hoping that this lovely place has some lovely sound-proofing, but in the end, who cares? The rush of my orgasm goes on and on, until the wave recedes and leaves me limp and exhausted.

Desperate for a cuddle, I slide my fingers free of his so I can lay down on top of him, nestling my face into his shoulder. He grips my thighs briefly, then slides his hands up and along my back, clasping me to him tightly. I wind my arms under and around him, reveling in the feel of skin on skin, a warm glow of pleasure that is almost as satisfying as another orgasm. What a girl has to do to get a hug from some people!

Too soon, I feel him drop his arms and shift under me, and I can tell he's done with being held. Before he has to ask, I roll off of him and, without a look or a word, he lunges off the bed and goes into the bathroom. I hear the shower running. Hmm. He'd better not be getting ready to do a runner on me, or there'll be hell to pay. On the other hand, maybe he simply doesn't like having other people's smells on his body. Another quirk to add to the long list.

I flop over on my back and stare up at the embellished plaster ceiling. I feel -- undefinable. I still feel a little high, but more grounded now. I'm firmly back in my body, but everything is different. And nothing is different. I can feel a new space in my brain, things that weren't there before, and I warily circle around my own consciousness, not able to ignore it, but not yet ready for exploration.

Mycroft emerges from the bathroom shortly, swaddled in one of the hotel's fluffy white toweling robes, looking very tired but relaxed. He strolls over to the liquor cabinet for another drink -- another! he worries me a little -- and then opens the drapes and inner sheer curtain a bit, standing there in contemplation. I can't tell if he's looking out at the streetlights and traffic, or at the dim reflection of the room overlaid on top of it. I can see him in the glass, and myself as well, a shadowed figure floating on an expanse of white satin.

He's completely ignoring me, but not in an unkind way. Considering that he's hanging around here when he'd rather not, I'm not going to be critical of how he does it. I'm just really glad I don't have to find out what I was going to do to him if he left.

I realize that I feel a little chilled, lying there naked on top of the coverlet, so I pull back the blankets and nestle down under them. Mycroft shifts one of the plump armchairs so he can sit and continue to gaze out of the window, legs stretched out and head lounging back. I start to feel a little guilty about making him stay here -- but only a little.

 _"Mycroft,"_ I call softly, _"What would you be doing if you were at your house right now?"_

He doesn't turn his head, but he does answer. _"Oh, I doubt I would be there tonight; I keep rooms at the club, it's often more convenient,_ " he says to my reflection _. "As for what I would be doing, I very likely would be sitting in a comfortable chair, looking out of a window, and savoring a fine Scotch."_ He reaches over to pick up his tumbler. _"And possibly listening to some music,"_ he adds, " _And, eventually going to bed."_

_"There's a stereo here."_

_"So there is."_

_"The bed is fairly enormous."_

_"So it is."_

He sounds slightly amused, and I smile at his reflection, snuggling down under the covers and furtively sniffing my arm and hand. I can quite distinctly smell him on my skin, but tomorrow morning will be soon enough for a shower. Between one inhale and the next, my eyes drop closed, and I am asleep.

My dreams that night are, not surprisingly, dark and disturbing, although I only wake once in a terror. I don't remember the dream at all, but my eyes snap open in panic, and I am suddenly fully awake and gasping for breath. It takes a moment for the room to come into focus and for me to realize where I am. The hotel, the lift, Mycroft. The room is dark now, he must have turned off the little lamp. I still myself and listen; there is even, quiet breathing coming from the armchair by the window. I can't tell if he's asleep or not, but he's here. I'm not alone. I roll over and let sleep drift over me again.

The next thing I know, there is a soft chiming that sounds like a mobile phone's alarm clock, but Mycroft is already nearly dressed. He finishes knotting his tie, then picks up the phone to silence the alarm. The room is lit only by a soft glow of dawn streaming through the sheer curtains; I have no idea of the time, although it's certainly much earlier than I usually rise.

Checking his tie's dimple in a beveled mirror beside the bed, Mycroft glances down at me. _"How are you feeling?"_

I blink about sleepily _. "Okay, I guess. Reasonably sane. Rested."_ I stretch out and realize that I hurt all over, no doubt from flinging myself around in the lift. " _Ow! And a little bit like I've been thoroughly beaten. Ooof."_ I rub my neck. _"How about you?"_

He frowns at his tie, and pulls the knot apart to re-do it _. "Like I've been soundly thrashed and spent the night sleeping in an armchair_ ," he says with a pointed look, " _But otherwise quite well, thank you."_

 _"Your choices, all the way,_ " I remind him.

 _"Yes,"_ he says absently, tightening the new knot and patting it with satisfaction. I feel a huge yawn and stretch come on, and by the time I look at him again, Mycroft has donned and buttoned his waistcoat and jacket, and is headed for the door.

He pauses by the bed to tell me, _"I've arranged a driver to collect you downstairs at half past ten this morning; in the meantime, I highly recommend that your order yourself some breakfast. The room service menu here is excellent._ " His coat pocket vibrates, and he pulls out his mobile to look at the incoming text with a frown, adding, " _You may expect me to pay a visit at the flat this evening. I will text you later with the exact time. "_

With that, he heads for the door, but I call out, _"Mycroft!"_

He turns, _"Yes?"_

I sit up, the room air chill on my naked shoulders. _"Thank you for staying."_

He just looks at me for a moment, then his lips curve in that faint smile. _"Well, it doesn't do to completely ignore the demands of one's mistress, does it?"_ And then he's gone.

Mistress? He just called me his mistress! Bloody hell.


	25. "I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions." ~ Augusten Burroughs

Sara just isn't getting it, and I'm losing patience with her. _"I don't see what you are so excited about, I really don't,"_ she tells me. _"I mean, honestly, what's the difference?"_ There is a sudden, weird hissing noise, like static or something.

 _"What the hell is that?_ " I shift the phone over to my other ear.

 _"Oh! Sorry for the racket, I just tossed some rashers into the pan,"_ she says loudly, but it's still kind of hard to hear her over the noise. _"Richard likes a bacon sandwich in the morning, and it's my turn to do breakfast."_

I look at the remains of my own breakfast on the room-service tray; just a short while ago, I completely demolished a huge veg omelette and an entire rack of toast before my tea was even cooled enough to drink. My stomach is currently somewhere between full and painfully full, but at least I'm not tempted to eat the floral arrangement on the little table anymore. I put my bare feet up on the window ledge and ruffle my still-damp hair; I probably should have waited until later to call Sara, but I was so chuffed that I had to tell someone right away. It's not working out how I thought, though.

I try again. _"It's like when you are first dating a bloke, right? And at some point you hear him talking to his mates, and he calls you his girlfriend, it's like that. You realize that you've moved up from just being someone he's seeing, to being his girlfriend. It means something."_

There is a long pause, filled only with the hissing bacon-static. _"I thought you didn't fancy him. I thought that this was just a JOB, not a relationship. You weren't involved. What happened?"_

Oh, god, I give up. _"Never mind, you're really not going to get it. It's fine. Just try to be happy for me, okay?"_

Sara sighs. " _I can't see how it's a good situation, Angelica! How am I supposed to be happy for you?"_ I hear the whistle of her teakettle, and I know the clatter I hear is from the mugs, as she grabs two in one hand from the hanging pegs and sets them on the counter.

 _"Can we drop it?_ " I ask her.

_"Okay, okay, okay. Well, then, what was the other thing you were all excited about? You said there were two really big things you had to share."_

Now I don't want to tell her, but I kind of have to. _"Yeah, well, I recovered some of my memory last night. Of mum. Of what happened. It's come back."_

Now there is a very long pause, and the bacon-static slowly dies out into silence as if she's turned off the cooker. _"That's...that's incredible. I never...we never thought you would, the doctors said probably never.... Wow." Another pause. "Are you all right? How are you doing?"_

 _"I'm...surprisingly okay. I still feel a little strange, a little unreal, you know? And I keep having weird flashes of memory, random stuff..."_ I don't mention the panic attack in the little shower cubicle this morning; that was a bad moment until I could remember how to unlatch the door. _"But I feel great, really! It was very cathartic."_

_"What happened? How did your memory come back?"_

_"Mycroft helped me."_

_"Really? Helped you, how?"_

I hear the rashers start sizzling again, but muffled, like she's put a lid on the pan. _"He took me up in the lift here, and forced me to talk--"_

_"He what? He forced you to talk about it?"_

_"He just wouldn't let me out until I did, that's all."_ Mentioning that he deliberately pushed me into a panic attack would just muddy the waters.

 _"Wouldn't let you out...So he trapped you in a lift?"_ She sounds incredulous. _"My god, didn't you go ballistic?"_

_"Yeah, I kind of lost it. It was hard on both of us..."_

_"I should think. At least one idiot psychiatrist still has the scars from trying that on you."_ The sizzling gets louder as she turns the rashers, then the lid clangs and the noise dies down again. _"So, let me be sure I understand. You asked him to help you recover memories you didn't know were missing, and he decided that the way to do it was to keep you in a lift and let you freak out until you remembered?"_

_"I didn't exactly ask him to do it, but--"_

_"Oh, so the bloke decided on his own that you need to be trapped in a lift and re-traumatized? Lovely. Just lovely."_

I cannot believe what a pill she is being. _"Sara, he did it for my own good. It was rough, really rough, but it was necessary!"_

_"Who decided it was necessary? It couldn't have been you!"_

I exhale a long, angry breath. _"You just don't understand. People have different ways of showing that they care, and Mycroft--"_

 _"For fuck's sake, will you listen to yourself!_ " I feel a little bit of a shock; Sara rarely shouts like that. _"He shouldn't be doing things like that! That isn't normal! Normal people don't do things like that, no matter how much they care--"_

_"Normal! You keep blathering about normal. Maybe I don't want normal."_

_"There's nothing wrong with normal, Angelica."_ I hear the clink of plates on the counter.

 _"There's nothing wrong with extraordinary, either,"_ I retort.

_"Extraordinary, or just plain mad?"_

I'm not even going to answer that. The silence stretches out, and I'm considering hanging up.

Finally, she sighs. _"Geli, can you please please please just listen to me?"_

 _"I'm listening."_ It's hard not to sound sullen, I know there's a lecture coming.

_"This isn't just a job, not anymore, and you need to own up to that. Even worse, you let this man get away with all kinds of things, and then you make excuses for him. Geli, I've seen you stick by some tossers who didn't deserve it, but I've never seen you let anyone mistreat you, not ever. It's just not like you!"_

I feel tears sting my eyes. _"Yes, this IS like me, Sara! Maybe it's not like how you want me to be, but it's still me!"_ I draw a quivering breath to go on, but she interrupts gently.

 _"Okay, so maybe it's simply a side of you I never saw before, and things are really just fine. But could you consider that, at the very least, this bloke is a lot older and more powerful than you, and he didn't get where he is by being a sweetie pie? And will you please not dismiss the idea that he could be totally playing you for his own reasons, and throwing you a bone every now and then to keep you coming back for more_?"

Whatever. _"What do you mean, a bone?"_

_"Oh, for instance, this morning calling you his girlfriend--"_

_"Mistress."_

_"Whatever. I only want you to consider the idea, okay? I don't even want to discuss it, I don't want to argue with you and make you more defensive than you already are. Just...keep it in mind as a possibility, okay?"_

_"Yes, sir. I shall be utterly vigilant in observing myself for signs of Stockholm Syndrome, and report immediately should I suspect same. Sir,"_ I say stiffly.

She sighs deeply, then says, _"Hold on a minute,"_ to me, then speaks in a low voice to somebody else. Richard must be up. I hear the clatter of silverware, then Sara is back. _"Angelica, I want you to hang out with me today, okay? I don't think you should be alone. I'll take an emergency leave day, the other staff can cover my appointments. We'll do something fun, all right?"_

I consider the idea for a minute. It would be nice to see her, but she's obviously going to spend the entire day either lecturing me, or wanting to.

 _"Not today, Sara, I have work to do."_ That's one excuse that she'll almost always buy.

We wrangle back and forth for a while about it, but in the end she relents, as long as I agree to contact her if things get bad for me, and that we'll get together on her next day off, whenever that is. As we say our see-you-laters and hang up, I feel wistful and sad, and then a little angry. Why does she have to be so bloody blinkered, so determined that she's right and I'm wrong?

I check the time. It's still not even eight o'clock! I'm not used to being conscious at such an ungodly hour. Mycroft said the car would be here to pick me up at half past ten. More than two hours to kill. Damn. I am wired with nervous energy, and pace around the little room, the light beige carpet soft and plush under my bare feet, pale in the early morning light.

I stop in front of the mirror that Mycroft used this morning, and pull aside the fluffy white toweling robe to look at my shoulder; it feels sore. Damned if I don't have more bruises coming up, this time just behind my collarbone where he dug those long fingers in to immobilize me. I gingerly press the area, and shrug my shoulder around, wincing a little. That man is harder on me than anyone I've ever...

 _I've never seen you let anyone mistreat you, not ever._ I feel an unaccustomed stab of doubt. What if she's right? What if I really am slipping into some pathetic battered woman scenario? I don't feel like I am, but do you necessarily know? _He could be playing you..._ Maybe it's only people on the outside that can tell, maybe I'm too far gone to see...

One thing is for sure, he doesn't stop. When I've said _No_ , the few times that I have, he hasn't even seemed to hear me. I said, _No, I'm not getting in the car,_ and he had me chased across London. I told him, _No, don't shave me_ , and he went on his merry way with that straight razor. In the lift last night, I told him, _No, let me out of here_ , and he pinned me tighter. He's not sadistic -- I saw his face, I saw the distaste in there along with the grim determination, I know he wasn't enjoying himself -- but it doesn't seem to matter to him one bit if I'm distressed or not, so long as he accomplishes his objective. He seems so arrogant, so sure that he's right.

And yet...and yet...while I'm not happy about any of that, I'm not really upset. Shouldn't I be upset? Shouldn't I be outraged? Sara is, on my behalf, and she doesn't even know the half of it. I think that Steen would be as well, he was always lecturing me about boundaries. I can think of half a dozen friends and acquaintances that would probably be appalled at Mycroft. Yet, truth be told, I'm not appalled. I'm not even put out. Why is that? Suddenly, it matters very much to me to know why.

I know why; I know, but I don't want to know. Leaning forward into the mirror, I look myself in the eye, and force myself to face myself. I'm not upset because I can't afford to be. I'm not outraged because if it showed, he might not want me anymore. Tears fill my eyes as I realize there is a great, jagged hole in the middle of me, and I'm trying to fit him in to fill it, and I'm terrified that he won't.

 _Name the hole, Angelica_ : It's called approval. It's called acceptance. It's called self-worth. If he sees me as valuable, then I have value. If not, then I'm nothing -- and I'll do anything, endure anything, to not be nothing again.

I lean my hands on the nightstand, resting my forehead against the cool reality of the mirror, excruciatingly suspended in the pain of how much I have been willing to betray myself. I don't know how long I hang there, tears burning my cheeks, but eventually I surface, done with it. One thing I've always been good at is feeling the pain, and moving on. I don't wallow.

Right, so that's how it has been; now it's going to be different. Nobody, not even Mycroft -- maybe, especially not Mycroft -- can fill that hole in me. Yeah, okay, I know the scenario, I know my own story; Mummy died, Daddy became emotionally distant, and I internalized that into a wound to my self-worth. Boo-hoo. But I'm not a child anymore; at some point I have to fill in the missing bits for myself, and not be constantly looking to someone else to fill it. The alternative is to spend my life as an approval-junkie, always looking for the next self-worth fix, betraying and hating myself over and over.

So, do I break it off with Mycroft, then? Just get off the sauce, go cold turkey? I really don't want to. I really do like him, and since we seem to be subtly re-negotiating the terms of our agreement, then there's hope that he'll be willing to approach me differently as well. No more punishment for triggering his jealousy, damn it. No more restraints during sex -- unless I want to, because it's fun sometimes.

If I'm no longer just a warm body on hire, if I'm his mistress, and he's my...whatever it is that mistresses have, then there is some kind of mutual obligation there, some consideration that both of us have beyond the exchange of money for value. I've always had the right to walk away if I didn't like the situation; now, I think, I have the right to change the situation if I don't like it. And, then walk away if it doesn't change...

Drying my face on the sleeve of my robe, I straighten up to look in the mirror once again. The face looking back at me is like my mother's, yet completely different. Her eyes were soft, warm and earthy-brown. Mine are clear and boundless as a summer sky. Eyes that could fly, given half a chance.

I look down at the nightstand under the mirror, searching, and find Mycroft's holey coin is still there. I'm not sure if he meant for me to keep it, or just wanted to be rid of a reminder of failure, but I guess it's mine now. I hold it to my eye and look around the room through the hole, wondering what the failure was, why Mycroft considered the coin a rebuke. It has to do with a bullet, since that hole is the most obvious thing about the coin..Sherlock got shot... Maybe Mycroft failed to protect his brother from the shooter? Sherlock said the coin was a reminder that neither of them is infallible, so that means they both blew it. Only human, after all.

The room doesn't look any different through the bullet hole; no lurking fairies. Too bad. I dig out my keys, and find a ring that I can slip through the bullet hole, adding the worn-shiny 50p to the flotsam and jetsam of fobs already dangling there. I have a small fistful of keys, although only the ones for the Knightsbridge flat and Sara's place are actually current; the rest are keys to places that used to be important to me. I like to hang onto keys, because you can never tell when you might need to go back.

My phone rings, and it's Sara again. I hesitate picking it up; I don't want to argue with her about getting together today, and I'm feeling too raw to talk about Mycroft any more. But, just before the last bloop of my ringtone, I impulsively answer it anyway.

 _"Hey."_ I hear traffic in the background, and general car-noise, so she's on her way to work. _"You better not be driving and using your mobile!"_ I admonish.

 _"Don't be silly, Richard's driving, of course...Listen, Angelica, I've got some great news for you!"_ Sara's voice is bubbling with excitement. _"At the dinner Thursday, you made a real impression with some important people! One of them just phoned me, trying to get hold of you."_

 _"Oh? Who is it?_ " I feel a flutter of anxiety.

_"It was the bloke who gave the awards for the Wildlife Fund's fairy penguin project, that nice Mr. Cobb! His wife is on the board, you know, and he's apparently quite important, too -- he runs some kind of financial consulting firm or bank or something. He just now called me, himself! He's very keen to meet with you."_

My mouth has gone very dry, and my omelette is heaving around with the buttered toast. _"Why does he want to meet with me? I'm not available, Sara, I'm on a contract right now!"_

_"God, no! Not for...for THAT kind of meeting! I certainly hope he doesn't know anything about THAT. No, he's looking for a new personal assistant, and he thinks you'd be perfect! Okay, let's be honest, he'd be hiring you on your looks at first, but then you could impress him with your brains, right?"_

Oh, this is so not good. _"How did he know to phone you?"_

_"I'm one of the project coordinators for the Fund, so Mrs. Cobb knows me, of course, from all the meetings. I imagine he saw you sitting with us and asked around. He's a real gentleman, Angelica, a very nice man, and very successful. This could be your lucky break!"_

_"Wow, maybe so,"_ I say, trying to feign enthusiasm. _"So, what did you tell him about me?"_

_"Just the basics, you know, general stuff -- but nothing about your current living situation! I'll leave that for you to figure out. I did give him your phone number, though, so I reckon he'll be ringing you today. He seemed very keen!"_

Oh, probably very keen indeed. I get off the phone as quickly as I can, and flop face-down on the bed to think. Oh, buggerbuggerbugger.

Maybe this is a coincidence, maybe Cobb really did just notice me and decide I would make a decorative PA. It could happen. Except, I know I'm being incredibly naive even thinking that. Those thugs that Anthea dealt with in that dark, narrow alley weren't random muggers, they worked for someone, and I can't imagine who it would be if not Cobb. They must have given enough of a description of me for him to remember seeing me at the dinner.

 _A very nice man, a real gentleman._ Eeewww. Sara just proved she's no judge of character! I roll over to gaze at the ceiling. I could use this as a way to get to Cobb, get some useful information out of him about the Torch codebook, and the escort murders -- god, I'd love to help bring him down, he so deserves it! But like D.I. Lestrade pointed out, you can't go after someone without solid proof, especially a high-profile someone like Cobb. If I only could get him to admit to the murders, or find some kind of evidence -- he had to have hired the hits, no way someone like him does his own killing. Maybe I could find out the name of his hit-man.

Or, more likely, I could get myself killed. He knows who I am. He knows my phone number. God help her, he knows who my sister is. The rest of my info is still locked down by Mycroft, thank goodness, but even so, I may as well be wearing a bulls-eye in the middle of my forehead. I shiver, remembering the descriptions of how Calypso, Tanya, and Regina were shot in the face at close range. Cobb's hit-man must be bold as brass, and cold as ice. For the first time, I'm really grateful for Mycroft's security detail on me.

I don't think Cobb is going to just give up if I avoid him; he knows I was spying. He's not going to believe I'm innocent, why would he? There's no reasonable explanation for what I was doing except that I was trying to spy on _somebody_. Either I "confess" to working for Doreshchenko and McCutcheon, or I "confess" to working for somebody else...but not Mycroft, of course. I'm going to have to come up with something, and face this human rubbish heap sooner rather than later. Ick.

A wave of revulsion ripples through me, and I jump up from the bed to keep from jumping out of my skin; but that turns out to be a bad idea. The sudden change in elevation mimics that little touch of light-headedness you get when a lift goes quickly up, and the next thing I know I am hyperventilating and fighting to stay on top of a panic attack. I sit on the bed and grab a pillow to bury my face into, knowing that the carbon dioxide buildup will slow my breathing down; paper bags are the best for that, but you have to use what's close to hand.

It doesn't take too long to get myself back in control, but it's scary as hell to go off like that unexpectedly. I used to over-react to stresses and hyperventilate occasionally, but full-blown attacks happened only if I actually got into a lift. Not any more, apparently.

I toss the pillow back onto the bed and grab up my phone. I really want to get out of here now, and back to my flat, back to familiar surroundings. I text Mycroft, _Ready to leave now, pls send car sooner? If not, I'll get a taxi_  , and start looking for my clothes, which have mysteriously disappeared from the heap I left them in on the floor last night.

I am completely unsurprised to open the closet and find everything tidily stowed in there; Mycroft hung everything at some point last night, lining my shoes up neatly underneath. I know he did it because he hates a mess, not because he wanted to please me, but it still makes me smile -- and I do appreciate that the dress isn't wrinkled.

He texts me back before I'm completely dressed, _Fifteen minutes. MH_

Good. Just enough time to fix my hair and dash on a little makeup, and I'm out the door. There's a young man wearing the hotel's uniform and a cheerful smile waiting in the hallway; he bows at me as I come out and says, " _This way please, miss,_ " and he leads me, I presume, towards the stairs. It better be the stairs, because no way in hell I am getting into a lift right now!

The door to the emergency-exit stair is located directly across from the two lifts, and that is an unexpected problem. A big one. Once I catch sight of the lift doors up ahead, I stop dead in my tracks and cannot budge an inch closer. My legs stop working, and I can only stare mulishly at the lifts. " _No,_ " I blurt out. _"No."_

No fear, no heart-pounding panic attack, only the utter inability to advance even one step more. I am a pretty strong-willed person; at least, I've never thought of myself as weak, but there is nothing I can do to force myself to approach the emergency stairs, because the lifts are too close by. Oh, Mycroft, what have you done to me?

The page or porter or whatever he is at my side appears to be completely unflappable. He merely nods, " _As you say, miss,_ " and pulls out his mobile to discreetly send a quick text, then gently steers me back the way we came, remarking casually, _"There is another set of stairs, miss, that will be more acceptable. They open out into the maintenance and service areas, but I can still easily guide you back to the main lobby. This way, please."_

'More acceptable' means that the stairs are nowhere near any lifts. My guide and I do end up in the typical warren of dingy hotel back-corridors and service areas, but it's not long before we emerge into the sparkle and elegance of the main lobby. The concierge hurries over when he catches sight of me, his dark face creased with concern. He dismisses the young man with wave of his hand, quietly asking if I am well, and he returns my smile with a brilliant one of his own when I assure him that I am just fine, thank you. He escorts me to the main entrance, nodding aside the doorman to open the heavy door for me himself.

I start to feel a bit like a parcel being handed off from one runner to the next when a bloke in chauffeur uniform comes bounding over to see me to the waiting car. Before I go with him, I reach into my handbag for a proper gratuity for the extra help, but the concierge waves a preemptive hand at me. _"No, no, that won't be necessary._ " I suppose Mycroft has already made sure it's worth their while; he wouldn't neglect a detail like that.

The concierge waits to see me seated in the hired car, and I note that he doesn't withdraw back inside the hotel until my driver has pulled out into traffic and we are safely on our way. I have to shake my head; I appreciate excellent service and coddling as much as the next person, but really, this is over the top. I know that Mycroft arranged it this way, but really... I sigh and lean back on the pale leather seat.

The driver pokes along like there is fragile and precious cargo in the back seat, taking the roundabouts slowly and peering at me in the rear mirror frequently, as if one wrong move could cause me to shatter or something. I wonder if he's surprised when we make it to the flat without any breakage happening.

He opens the door for me when we arrive, and shadows me so closely for the six steps it takes to get to the door that I get a little nervous; it's a relief when I close the blue door behind me. I am so happy to get back inside that tiny little flat! It feels like a cozy nest, and I kick off my shoes and flop down on the sofa to just soak that in.

I jump a little when a melodious klaxon goes off in my handbag; it's my mobile. All my trepidation about Cobb hits me full force as I pull out the phone and fumble it around to look at the screen -- and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see a familiar number there.

 _"Hey."_ I am so glad that it's Mycroft! I honestly wasn't ready to deal with Cobb yet.

_"Angel. How are you?"_

_"I'm well, thanks. Just fine."_ I feel reluctant to admit my various freak-outs this morning. _"Yeah, I feel good."_

 _"Despite the escalation of your anxiety into full-blown phobia?"_ he asks dryly.

Of course the concierge would've told him. _"I do seem to have a real, live phobia now, don't I? There's probably even a special name for it."_

 _"Surprisingly, there's no specific diagnostic name for fear of lifts, even though it's fairly common. More often related to generalized claustrophobia or anxiety disorders than direct trauma, however."_ Well, he certainly seems to have done his homework; I guess I should have expected that. _"The problem ought to rapidly diminish as you re-integrate your memories."_

_"I sure hope so."_

_"It will,"_ he states firmly. _"You are highly resilient. Have you had any other unusual reactions this morning?"_

I hesitate for a moment, but realize that's an admission in itself, so I go ahead and tell him about the panic attack in the shower, and the hyperventilation episode -- although I blame that on the stress of a spat with my sister, not on the prospect of crossing swords with a slimeball. I'm not ready to tell him about Cobb contacting Sara yet.

_"You'd do well to remain in familiar surroundings today and avoid further stress, Angel. I want you to stay indoors --"_

_"No! I've had enough of indoors. I'm going to go for a long run in the park, and I might treat myself to a nice luncheon out somewhere later on."_

He doesn't reply; I think I'm supposed to hear disapproval or something in his silence, but, whatever. I wait it out, and finally he answers with a despairing sigh, _"As you like. Have you noticed any improvements in your mood or mental state?"_

_"Yes; I have to admit that both seem really improved, overall. I really do feel...lighter. And more focused."_

His response is smug. " _Of course, that is exactly as I predicted. I told you that you would thank me."_

_"Yeah, about that...Mycroft?"_

_"What?"_

_"This may have had a good result, overall, but it doesn't make it okay that you did it."_

_"If it had the desired result, do the particulars really matter so much?"_

" _Yes. Yes, they do. The end may justify the means all the time in politics, Mycroft, but never in personal relationships. That's different."_

He's quiet for a moment, and I can tell it's a thinking-quiet, not a manipulative one. _"I don't really see the difference."_

_"Will you just take it as a given that there is? At least, there definitely is with me."_

_"You're niggling about a very fine distinction, Angelica. It seems pointless."_

_"No, it's not pointless,_ " I'm getting upset, so I lower my voice to keep it steady. _"It matters to me, therefore it's not pointless. What you did to me in the lift was... unacceptable, despite the outcome. There were other options that could have achieved the same thing."_

_"That was the most efficient, and had the highest probability of success."_

_"And carried the most risk, but you decided for me that it was an acceptable risk, didn't you?"_ I pause for a moment, but he is silent. _"And that's the bit I object to the most. It was a decision that affected me far more than it did you, but you didn't allow me to have any part in making it! That is NOT okay, damn it!"_ Finally, I feel outrage burning in my eyes and choking up my throat with hot tears. I swallow, willing myself to calmness. I don't think Mycroft would respond well to hysteria; few people do.

He sighs, sounding very put upon, and comments, as if to himself, _"You'd think I would learn by now to take my own advice."_

It reminds me of one of my favorite books, and I half-smile. " _You're like Alice, then. You give yourself very good advice, and very seldom follow it?"_

 _"Something like that. So, Angel,"_ he sounds all business-like now, for some reason. _"What do you want from me, then?_ " He waits, expectantly.

_"What do I want?"_

_"Yes. What are your demands?"_

I can't help it, I laugh out loud at that. _"I'm not a hostile foreign nation, Mycroft --"_

 _"Aren't you?"_ he drawls.

 _"No, I'm not!"_ The idea is still amusing to me. _"Listen, I'm not demanding anything, this is not a hostile negotiation. However, I do have a simple request: Please don't do shit like what you did in the lift anymore, okay?"_

There is a long silence. I can't tell if we are waiting each other out or not, or if he's buffing his nails or calculating his next move, or maybe all of the above.

Finally, he answers. _"As you like."_

He doesn't say any more, and after a moment I blurt into the silence, _"Do you know yet what time you'll be stopping by tonight?_ " And I immediately kick myself for being pathetic and worrying if he still wants to come and see me; and then I consciously forgive myself, because you don't change the habits of a lifetime in a single afternoon.

 _"Well, I had thought, perhaps, around half past seven, if you would find that acceptable. Should I wait for you to decide and get back to me?"_ Snarkity-snark-snark-snark. I guess he doesn't care much for the shift in power dynamic.

 _"Half past seven would be great -- and I don't believe we need to re-negotiate the two-hour notice thing."_ I sigh, and decide to risk kicking the conversation up a notch. _"And you're snarking because you're angry with me for being angry at you, when all you were trying to do was help me. I want you to know, I really do appreciate what you did, Mycroft. I really am happy to have all my memories back, even if some of them hurt. I just really wish you had gone about it differently."_

 _"There are very few people I would have troubled to do that for,"_ he says quietly.

 _"I gathered that, and I'm amazed to be one of them."_ I'm glad we're having this conversation on the phone; I'd be embarrassed for him to see how hard I'm crying. _"How's your arm?"_

 _"A bit stiff,_ " he admits ruefully. _"Lacking the resilience of youth, it will take some time to heal, but fortunately it's on the left, which I use less. Although my piano practice will suffer."_

_"I thought you weren't musical?"_

_"That doesn't mean I don't practice,"_ he admonishes.

 _"Of course."_ One surprise after another.

 _"Now, as I said, you may expect me around half past seven, circumstances permitting, of course. I shall text you with the precise time; I shouldn't dare be anything but punctual,_ " he adds slyly.

 _"No, you shouldn't,"_ I laugh. _"Have an excellent day, Mycroft."_

 _"And you, Angel. And you."_ I wonder if the warmth in his voice surprises him as much as it does me?

After I wipe my eyes and dry my face -- again! -- I stay curled upon the sofa with my phone, scrolling idly through my emails, and avoid thinking about Mycroft by thinking about how the hell I'm going to handle Cobb. I've decided that I won't take his call until I'm good and ready to; just because the phone rings, doesn't mean you have to answer it.

I'm startled out of my thoughts by the door bell; I freeze for a moment, blankly wondering what to do. The bell chimes again, and there is a knock. Well, answer it, noodle-brain, I tell myself -- or at least see who it is before you decide to panic.

When I peer out through the peephole, I get a shock; it's the cleaners! Argh! How could I have forgotten that it's Monday? I let them in, and hastily run upstairs to strip off my dress and stockings and throw on my running gear. Not even bothering with a warm-up or stretch, I slip by the two women as they are dragging their kit into the flat, and take off for the park.

It's overcast but very warm today; probably going to rain at some point, of course, just before turning cold and nasty. Well, Mum used to say that everyone complains about the weather, but nobody ever seems to do anything about it, do they? It makes me laugh out loud with pleasure to clearly remember her saying that. Now I know for a fact where I got my weird sense of humor.

The chess-playing drug-dealers seem to be doing a brisk business today, and I give them a wave and a friendly _Hullo!_ as I fly past; they look up with matching frowns. The endorphins from exercise, the "runner's high," are kicking in quickly today, and I feel incredibly good; then I remember that I haven't even really been outside since Thursday. No wonder I feel like a bird skimming along above the ground!

I let my mind be lulled by the rhythm of my feet into a light trance; like a lot of people, I do some of my best thinking on a run. So, what do I say to Cobb? What's the most effective story to spin?

The best lie is the one closest to the truth, so why not give him a version of it? On Thursday night, when he saw me, I really was just using a booth to call my boyfriend, and I was surprised when I saw McCutcheon come out of the lift. I followed McCutcheon down to the marina to see what he was up to. Doreshchenko and McCutcheon have been trying to recruit me to work for them, but I'm suspicious of them. I think they might have something to do with the murders of those prostitutes last month, the three women and the rent-boy. I'm equal parts fearful and greedy, and none too bright. Above all, I have no idea what the Torch is, or anything about a code-book; I reckon mentioning that would get me killed faster than anything! And, of course, I have never even heard of Mycroft Holmes.

That all sounds pretty good. Plausible. So, what do I do if Cobb actually offers me a job, besides try not to be sick? I could try to string him along. It worked for Doreshchenko, who seems to have forgotten about me for now -- although maybe that's because Lestrade was able to use my information to give dear Sacha something else to worry about.

Working for Cobb would put me in a great position to spy on him -- as well as making it easy for him to make me disappear. That needs some more thought. I park myself on an empty bench for a quick breather, as the close heat is starting to get to me, and take a few pulls on my water bottle. Just for fun, I look around to see if I have a security detail following today; I've gotten so used to the idea, that even if I don't see them, I assume they're there. Today of all days, you'd think I would have followers, but I don't see any. I wonder how Mycroft justifies assigning security to me -- or, if he has to justify anything to anybody?

By the time I'm done with my run and back to the flat, the cleaning crew have blessedly come and gone, and I know exactly how I am going to handle Mr. Cobb. I'm also covered with a sticky layer of sweat and grime, so I shower and change into a breezy chintz dress and flat sandals. I plan on taking a nice walk to a wonderful Thai restaurant not five minutes away, and then a quick expedition through Harrods if I have the stamina for it.

I haven't got to the end of the lane before Cobb rings me. I honestly know it's him before I even answer the phone; I just know. And now that I've had time to prepare myself, I don't even flinch when I hear him ask for Angelica Talbot. I barely give Cobb time to introduce himself before I execute my plan of attack.

 _"Oh, Mr. Cobb, my sister told me you were looking for me!_ " I breathe in my patented Breathless Sex Kitten voice, leaning against a handy stucco wall. _"I'm SO glad you phoned me, you must think I'm a complete IDIOT for how I behaved on Thursday night! I'm SO embarrassed, I could just DIE!"_

Cobb tries to get a word in edgewise, but Sex Kitten steamrolls right over him. _"I mean, just because I'm paranoid about what Mr. McCutcheon is up to, that's just NO excuse to go lurking in the bushes like some...some SPY or something, is it, I was SO ashamed of myself when your nice men caught me at it, and then my boyfriend had to go overboard and get violent with them, well, you can imagine how embarrassed I was, so we ran off, but I thought about it later, and I just felt SO BAD about it, I would really love to apologize in person for my terrible manners! Could we meet someplace? To talk?"_

Cobb stutters around for a only moment, but I can tell I've totally confused him; he probably had a script all rehearsed to weasel me into talking to him, never expecting that he would be out-weaseled one minute into the conversation. _"Miss Talbot, I would love to meet with you for a chat!"_ He's recovering pretty quickly. _"Where may I send my car to pick you up?"_ Oh, he's good! In that one little phrase, he's angling to get my address, letting me know that he's rich because he can afford a private car and driver, and, he's taking control of where we meet. Nice try, but no cigar, sir.

_"Well, I'm shopping in Knightsbridge at the moment, and just on my way to have a nibble at Patara; if you're free, and you like Thai food, why don't you join me?"_

_"I'd rather take you someplace more special, and private, Miss Talbot. Please, let me pick you up."_

Sex Kitten giggles and flirts _. "Oh, dear, special and private? Are you asking me out on a date or something, Mr. Cobb?"_

 _"I...ah...well,"_ I can almost hear the gears spinning in his poor head, trying to catch up. There's no way he can answer that and win. _"Perhaps, yes, who wouldn't want to?" he finishes lamely._

_"But I'm afraid I don't date married men, Mr. Cobb. It just isn't right. So, why don't you join me for a casual lunch in, say, half an hour? At Patara, in Knightsbridge, okay? There's some lovely private booth seating where we could talk, and they have the BEST food there!"_

He tries to wrangle a different day, but I'm adamant that this is absolutely the only possible time, because, reasons. When he finally relents, I disguise my glee as excitement. _"I can't WAIT to meet you properly, Mr. Cobb! I'll be waiting at the restaurant for you -- do you remember what I look like?"_

He's gotten his mojo back, and says suavely, _"A blond goddess, lighting up the room; how could I forget ?"_

Eeeww! But Sex Kitten giggles and purrs some more before saying goodbye, with a satisfied smile. I'm excessively pleased with myself for how I handled that -- although, to be honest, I'm also more than a little anxious.

I take a few deep breaths to steady myself, then phone Patara to change my lunch reservation to a table for two, in one of the more private booths, and stride off toward the bustling shopping district. Out of the corner of my eye, I'm sure I see a black car pull away from the kerb in the next block, and I breathe a sigh of relief. 


	26. "I want/ To do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."  ~Pablo Neruda

Sitting across from Cobb in the tiny private dining nook of the tiny Thai restaurant, I can understand how Sara thought he was just the _nicest_ man. Slimy git that he is, the elegant, mustached gentleman pouring me another glass of expensive wine knows how to be charming.

He has done little but flatter and fan-dance with me since I got here, and I have been Sex Kitten-ing him right back. To be honest, his posh accent and dapper double-breasted suit remind me a bit of Mycroft, although I feel bad even thinking that comparison; Cobb is much older and infinitely creepier.

Like they were on Thursday, Cobb's eyes are narrowed with tension, and he has dark circles under them. He is not a happy man, and I suspect that things are not going well for him at the moment. He also has a chronic sniffle, probably from irritated sinuses, and a slight nervous tic under one eye; I wonder if he's just a touch high right now?

The fan-dancing continues back and forth across the tiny table even as we order for lunch, but after the waiter disappears I decide that I've bloody had enough of bantering about the bloody weather. I lean low across the table, and hush my voice, even though we are alone in the nook and quite separate from the rest of the posh but crowded little restaurant.

 _"I really want to let you know how sorry I am, Mr. Cobb, for my awful manners on Thursday. I just can't tell you how embarrassed I am! Please say that you forgive me!_ " I purr.

Right on cue, Cobb reassures me. _"Think no more of it, my dear, think no more. But, that was very foolish of you! What on earth possessed you to be in that alley listening in? You could have gotten hurt!"_ His manner is jovial and patronizing, but his pale grey eyes are sharp and suspicious.

 _"Well,"_ I toy with my wineglass, as if embarrassed. _"Well, I saw Mr. McCutcheon, you know? And I overheard him talking to Mr. Doreshchenko on his mobile, and it sounded like something important was to be going on down at the marina, so I followed Mr. McCutcheon and hid near the boat..."_

 _"How is it that you know those two?_ " He can't quite keep the sharpness out of his voice.

For this, something near the truth is more effective than a lie. _"Well, he and Mr. Doreshchenko kind of want me to work for them, as a, um, product representative. If you know what I mean?"_ Cobb bares the teeth under his mustache in a semblance of a smile, to show me that he knows what I mean. _"But I just don't know. You know? I just don't know._ " I shake my head and sip my wine. _"I mean, they have good product, it's not rubbish, but I just don't really feel comfortable trusting either of them...."_

I trail off here with a pretty little shrug, waiting for Cobb to break in, and he obliges. " _There's precious little reason why you should trust either of them, my dear. The Russian is a barbarian, and McCutcheon, well, he's only Scottish by birth; technically, he's a Yank."_ Cobb takes up his wine glass and swirls it with a dramatic look. _"Ex-CIA, actually, and I don't think the Russian even knows it."_

McCutcheon is ex-CIA? The suprise must be showing on my face, because Cobb gives a nasty chuckle. _"Not exactly the image of a CIA man, is he?"_

I shake my head. _"Are you sure about that? It just seems so...unlikely, you know? Is he gone rogue or what?"_

 _"Retired because of illness, I believe, and returned to the ancestral roost for his premature twilight years. He seems to have taken up crime as a hobby._ " Cobb drawls, sounding dryly amused, but he fidgets with his cuff a little, then sniffs.

 _"Goodness!_ " I shake my head again. _"My goodness. Well, I just knew there was something very wrong with him. I just knew it!"_ I make a dimpled smile at Cobb. _"I'm surprised a gentleman of your quality associates with people like that."_

The grey mustache twitches. _"One must associate with all sorts, my dear. All sorts."_

Hmm. More like birds of a feather, I should think. _"So true!_ " I agree. Now, let's push the envelope a little. _"Do you think, well, I hate to say it –_ " I pause breathlessly, _"But, might they be capable of murder? Because I think they may have had something to do with the shooting of poor Calypso and the other two escorts..._." I watch his pale eyes carefully, and note that his wide pupils suddenly contract when I mention Calypso's name. Not evidence admissible in court, mind you, but convincing to me. _"And there's that male escort, Steen Dijkstra, who was murdered recently as well, and all the messy business from that –"_

Now it's not just Cobb's pupils that react; his eyes widen very slightly, and he shifts himself a bit back in his chair, away from me. He recovers quickly, but his attitude is completely changed. He drops the avuncular, jovial mask completely. _"Whom do you work for?_ " he demands abruptly.

I maintain my facade, acting puzzled and anxious at his change in demeanor. _"I– I'm a freelance escort. I don't work for anyone. Did I say something wrong, Mr. Cobb?"_

He leans forward again with a dangerous look. _"Dijkstra's death never made it to the papers. Only a few people know about it, and even fewer know how it brought the whole house of cards down. The ones who do know are the police – and the people who work for them."_ He lowers his voice to a meaningful growl, and I don't have to feign my sudden pang of fear.

 _"I knew him!"_ I blurt out, louder than I intended. Lowering my voice, I add, _"Like I said, I'm an escort. We were colleagues. I knew him. I was...I was the one they called in to identify –"_

I break off when our server appears with our soup, and Cobb takes the opportunity to pull out his phone and unobtrusively check his text messages. I watch him through my down-turned lashes as he scrolls rapidly through several, then stops and reads one carefully. He snarls rudely at the server when she asks if we require anything else, and the slim young woman bows quickly and makes a hasty retreat.

I pause for a moment to genuinely appreciate the soup; it's coconut-based, with fiery chilis and crunchy green bits and a delicate aroma of seafood, beautifully garnished. I love Thai food so much – one of these days I am going to take a holiday and just go to Thailand. Looking up, I see that Cobb is ignoring the steaming bowl in front of him, glaring at me instead as if he could force truth from me by sheer willpower.

He looks totally worked up, so I try to smooth it over. _"Mr. Cobb, you have to believe me, I know about Steen's death only because I knew him personally, and the police brought me in for questioning. I don't work for the cops!"_

 _"Really?_ " he sneers, all charm and suavity completely evaporated. _"But how are we going to explain those two plainclothes law-enforcement types that trailed you here and stationed themselves across the street? How are we to account for the Level One security lock-down on your public records?_ " He waves his mobile at me. _"I've just now gotten confirmation of both those facts. Humble prostitutes don't have security guards and records lock-downs. So. You will tell me whom you work for, and what they know about me."_ He pockets his mobile and reaches across the small table, grabbing my slender wrist tightly, his eyes narrow and cold. _"Tell me what you know, and then I'll decide what to do with you."_

Don't you TOUCH me! I flip my hand around and grab the arm that's gripping me, as hard as I can. My hands are stronger than they look, and I twist his arm slightly. He winces and tries to jerk free, knocking over his wine glass. As the fine red floods across the golden tablecloth, I hold fast and hiss at him, _"Everything! We know everything! We know about the Torch codebook, and how you got it, and about Calypso and Regina and Tanya and Steen. We know about the young girls, and the boys as well. We know why you were acquitted twenty years ago, and we have evidence to get a conviction this time. We know about the cocaine, and all the other drugs, too. We know about the bribery, and the corruption, and we are going to GET YOU!"_

I finally let go of his wrist – he let go of mine ages ago – and he just sits there for a moment. Cobb's face is beet-red, and his eyes are bugging out. Seriously, I wonder if I've given him a heart attack, but he doesn't fall over, he just sits as if paralyzed. Now, here's where a misspent youth can come in handy, because I know that long-term overuse of coke inclines toward paranoia and anxiety disorder. He just needs one little push more...

Mercilessly, I lean forward at him and whisper, _"We have people undercover everywhere, watching you. We have been for a long time. We're closing in."_

He stares at me with undisguised hatred. " _The police!_ " he grates angrily. " _I knew you were with the police!"_ Cobb jumps up, knocking his chair over in his haste to stand. _"I won't!"_ his voice is loud and hoarse. " _Do you hear me? I won't!"_ He abruptly turns and hurries down the risers separating our nook from the main restaurant, and is gone.

I flop back in my seat. Damn, that didn't exactly go how I intended it. I guess I lost my temper when he grabbed at me. I rub at my wrist where he touched me with a corner of the tablecloth, sighing. If I'd played it cooler, I might have gotten something more out of him; as it is, all I accomplished was to throw him into a panic. Trapped animals are the most dangerous, Sara has always said, and I think she's right. I hope this doesn't make Cobb more dangerous to me. Hopefully, he won't see any point in having me killed if he thinks I'm just a cog in the machine.

The server comes to check on me, and I shrug and smile helplessly, a little embarrassed. She obviously thinks Cobb and I had a lovers' quarrel – ick! – because she keeps glancing sideways at me with a little smirk as she sops up the spilled wine and clears Cobb's uneaten soup. Once she's gone, I settle in to enjoy my lunch, and a tiny bit more of the excellent wine. At least Cobb already put the meal on his tab, so that's something.

Bloody hell, McCutcheon is ex-CIA. That is so weird. Of course, that could mean he was a data analyst or something, not necessarily a field agent... Still, I can't underestimate him; there might be a lot more there than meets the eye. And, Cobb said that Steen's death 'brought down a house of cards.' I didn't know he was that pivotal! Just how deeply was he involved, and in what? I need to poke Mycroft again about that.

I thoroughly enjoy the rest of my meal, and by the time the coconut ice arrives at the end, I'm thinking about what to do next. I don't think I need to be too worried about Cobb doing anything to me at the moment, and even if he did, I'm not on my own.

So, what do I want to do? I haven't got the focus for a museum today, and I don't feel like socializing, but I also don't want to just go back to the flat... I guess I'll go into first-world default mode and go shopping. Harrods is just around the corner, and I could certainly afford to treat myself to something nice.

It's a short, pleasant walk. The day is still very warm despite being cloudy, and the pavements are busy but not awfully crowded. As I draw near the endless row of green awnings over the Harrods shop-windows, I notice that I am feeling a little anxious. Maybe I don't feel up to this after all? I need to be mindful that I had a bit of a breakdown just last night; I feel fine, even better than fine, but I could be fooling myself.

I stop outside the main entrance, hesitating, feeling the lunch in my stomach curdling with anxiety. The doormen in their forest green livery look at me curiously. I give them a wan smile, then go to lean up against the weathered stone wall around the corner for a moment. What is wrong with me? I've never in my life suffered from agoraphobia. I close my eyes, calm my breath, and listen inwards for a moment. I realize that, for one thing, I am much more stressed by the encounter with Cobb than I realized. It was a very intense hour, and I am surprised at how angry I still am. I'm angry that he touched me, threatened me. I'm angry that a person like that exists.

Behind that is... I'm afraid of this building. Of going in. That's silly, I've been in here before, the escalators are very open and user-friendly, the place is palatial and beautiful with lots of pretty-shiny things to look at.... And lifts. There are lifts in there, lifts that go ding.

I groan inwardly. Oh, god, I don't need this. I thought it was bad enough this morning, when I couldn't go past the lifts at the hotel. Now am I not even able to enter a building that has them? This is beyond ridiculous.

Ridiculous or not, I need to respect my limits. I hope Mycroft is right, and the symptoms will improve with time, but if not, there will be time to work on it later, when my psyche has had a chance to settle down.

I open my eyes to find Davies standing in front of me, flanked by a older man I haven't seen before. They are both regarding me with polite concern. _"Miss Talbot?"_ Davies asks, _"Are you all right? Do you require assistance?"_

I make a pale smile. _"No, Mr. Davies, I'll be fine. I seem to be... I seem to be having some problems with going in there_ ," I nod at the entrance around the corner. _"So I think I shall just do my shopping at the little boutique stores, right? Here we go."_ I heave myself away from the supportive wall, and, with a nod to Davies and the older chap, I march off in the direction of a cluster of shops that I know for a fact don't have lifts in them.

I find a few things here and there, especially a nice new summer dressing gown to replace my shabby cotton one, and then I hit the motherlode; I stumble across a bookstore that has stacks and stacks of intriguing, rare old books. I would love to collect real, live books, but it's not realistic right now. Books are heavy, and bulky, and hard to move, whereas my e-reader can store thousands in no space at all – and if I lose my reader, I can still access nearly all of my collection on the cloud.

Still, I heft the volumes in my hands, smelling the pleasant mustiness of old book as I carefully turn the brittle pages, and I think how nice it would be someday to have a place in my life for real books. Someday.

I spend an hour or two in that bookstore, and it helps to ground me immensely. By the time I leave it and wend my way back to the flat with my shopping bags, I feel nearly peaceful and quite calm. It's teatime, and although I had a large lunch, I still feel peckish enough to bother making a little bite of sandwich to go with my tea.

I get a text just as I'm finishing the last of my sandwich: _Expect me at 7:34. MH_   Two hours, plenty of time to get ready. I tidy up the little flat – it was just cleaned this morning, how did it get so messy? – and get ready for work at a leisurely pace.

Suitably polished and dressed, I curl up on the big four-post bed with my reader and flip through my collection for something to pass the time. Pablo Neruda catches my eye, but of course that reminds me of my fat, sassy kitty. Poor Pablo, he must despair of me as much as Sara does. I pull out my phone and check the time; over half an hour to spare, so I phone Sara just to let her know that I've met with Cobb, but no job is forthcoming. She was so excited for me, and I don't want her to cherish any hopes in that direction!

No answer, so she must be working late. I leave her a message and mute my phone, snuggling down with the fine, fiery love poetry that I adore Neruda for....the room is warm and the sun finally peeps out as it sinks lower, flooding my eyes with bright green-gold light filtering through the blinds, and my eyelids get heavier and heavier, harder to lift...

When I open them again, the light is deeper green and not as bright. I don't know how long I was asleep, but I guess I needed it. I stretch, yawning, and roll onto my back, still stretching. I'm wearing my short, tight white eyelet-lace dress, and it slithers above my hips as I stretch and roll – and I freeze, realizing that the chair beside the bed is occupied. My heart in my mouth, I slowly turn my head to see who it is.

It's Mycroft, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, his fingers laced together, a slightly bemused expression on his face. He raises an eyebrow at me.

 _"Oh, good grief, what time is it? I didn't mean to fall asleep!_ " I put my e-reader on the nightstand and palm my eyes, careful to not smear my makeup. I become aware of quiet, soft piano music swirling in the background.

 _"Approximately seven fifty-five,"_ he replies, without looking at a watch. He's already taken off his waistcoat anyway, and his tie. He looks like he has been comfortably settled in for a while, with a tumbler of something amber on the small table beside him.

 _"You didn't have to let me sleep,_ " I tell him. _"Waking me up would have been totally okay."_

 _"I know._ " He sips the drink at his elbow. _"However, the sound of your snoring is oddly soothing."_

I peer at him closely, but I can't tell if he's joking or not. I don't know if I will ever be able to tell if he's joking or not, so I decide to not worry about it.

 _"Your luncheon date must have left you quite exhausted,"_ Mycroft remarks offhandedly.

Of course he knows all about it; the thought didn't cross my mind that he wouldn't. _"It was kind of intense_ ," I agree. _"But I feel pretty good about it."_

 _"Do you?"_ Oh, dear lord, he's in one of those infuriating moods tonight, sitting there smiling like a dapper, middle-aged Sphinx.

 _"Yes, I do."_ I sit up, hugging a pillow. _"Cobb told me a few interesting tidbits – and by the time he left, he was totally convinced that I was an undercover cop!"_

 _"Is that a good thing?"_ Mycroft asks mildly.

 _"Isn't it?"_ I'm starting to get annoyed. _"I thought it was good for him to be misdirected. You know, so he wouldn't try to kill me or something inconvenient like that."_

He just flicks an eyebrow at that, but says nothing.

 _"Lovely. So I wasted my time this afternoon?_ " I sound more peevish than I mean to, but he remains unruffled.

_"Not at all. In fact, your assistance has proven invaluable."_

_"How? How has my assistance been invaluable?"_

_"As the straw that finally broke the camel's back,_ " he says smugly.

 _"You need to give me a little more than that,_ " I protest.

_"Do I? I find that fairly disappointing, Angel. You ought to be able to deduce it yourself."_

He really is a pill tonight. I had teachers pull that 'you ought to be able to figure it out' rubbish back when I was reading psychology at uni, and I detested it then as much as I do now.

I make a disgusted noise in my throat and glare at him angrily. He shrugs imperturbably, and sips his drink. Oh, all right, I'll play the silly game. I'll be wrong, he can be all smug, and then he'll tell me what's going on.

I stare up at the green canopy over my head. So, why would Mycroft refer to me as the straw that broke the camel's back? What did I do today that could be considered helpful? Well, he didn't even ask what I found out, so it can't be the information that I gleaned. It can't be that I gained Cobb's trust, because the smarmy git left the restaurant in an utter panic...he seemed ready to do anything, leap any which way...

Damn.

I flick my eyes down to meet Mycroft's. _"A bird dog. You've been using me as a bloody bird-dog, to flush the game out from cover. That's it, isn't it?"_

He rewards me with a ghost of a smile, raising his glass in a salute. He could reach over with a long arm to pat my head, but if he does I swear I'll bite him again. _"So, has everything been a set-up to use me to panic Cobb?"_ I ask bitterly.

Mycroft calmly shakes his head. _"No. That possibility presented itself only recently; it seemed likely to produce maximum effect with minimal risk, and you did not disappoint."_

_"Why the hell didn't you tell me? I think I have a right to know when I'm being used like that."_

_"Do you?"_ He's not mocking me; he's just disagreeing. _"I simply made sure you had an opportunity to do something you would find both interesting and useful._ " He lowers his head and voice, admonishing. _"Admit it, you enjoyed yourself! Why should it matter that you weren't accomplishing what you imagined you were?"_

 _"You should have told me,_ " I insist stubbornly. " _Why didn't you?"_

He sets the nearly-empty glass down and leans toward me, elbows on knees. _"Because it would have skewed your performance. You don't have the maturity or training to successfully fool an old player like Cobb, so you had to be genuine in your attempts to ferret out information."_

Damn it, I can actually see that. It's not exactly flattering, but I have a hard time arguing with it. _"Why did you need to panic him? What happens now?"_

_"It's already happened. Cobb has scuttled out from under the protector who was ruthlessly exploiting him, and fled overseas."_

_"Who was Cobb's protector?"_

Mycroft shakes his head slowly. _"No. There are some names it's better that you not know."_

I sigh. More secrets. _"Okay, then, what about everything else? What about the Russians? Have you been using me to flush them out as well?"_

Mycroft frowns. _"You're not thinking it through, or you wouldn't be asking that, Angel."_

 _"Whatever!"_ I hate feeling like I'm being schooled. _"And what about Steen? Cobb implied that Steen's murder caused a lot of trouble. Why was he so important? What was really going on?"_

Another slow headshake, but this time Mycroft remains silent, instead parking his tongue briefly between his molars and working it around his cheek for a moment.

Damn him. _"Okay, so you can't, or won't, tell me that. Can you at least tell me who killed him? You said ages ago that you had figured it out, and that you would see to it that some kind of justice was done. Well?"_

_"As I told you, Angel, I have my own ways and means – but you'll have to accept never knowing the particulars of how and when and whom."_

_"Why?"_

He doesn't answer me, only presses his lips together grimly.

In the silence, we stare each other down. Unsurprisingly, I break first. _"So, I'm just supposed to trust that you will take care of it?"_ I ask.

_"Yes."_

_"You once told me that I shouldn't trust you."_

_"I seem to recall that you said you did anyway,"_ he reminds me.

I bite my lip, remembering. _"You know, the hell of it is, I still do. Even now. It probably means there is something very wrong with me, doesn't it?"_

I'm not sure how to read the face that he makes; it's both rueful, and very resigned. " _I'm afraid that I am not the best person to judge that."_

_"We're both in trouble, then."_

_"Apparently so,_ " he agrees, reaching for the tumbler and swallowing down the last mouthful of amber in it. Setting the glass down again, Mycroft gives me one of his subtle smiles. " _Stand for me,_ " he says, and adds, _"If you please?"_

Yes, I please. I set aside the pillow and unfurl myself from the bed, not bothering to tug down my wayward hem, and straddle his outstretched legs, striking a provocative pose with a playful smile. He gazes up at me for a moment, drinking me in, then reaches out to run his hands over my thighs and up, pulling me in even closer until I have to kneel in the chair, still straddling his legs.

Caressing my nearly-bare arse, he lifts his face up, inviting; I don't have to be asked twice. I cover his mouth with mine, resting my hands lightly on his shoulders, feeling the muscles shift under the fine fabric of his shirt as his hands grip and knead the taut smoothness of my hips and thighs. Like always, the response of my desire is quick and sharp, the swell of need rippling like flame between my legs, sending me wet and writhing.

He can tell, and I feel his mouth beneath mine shape into a smile. He raises his hands to cup my face and pull it back a little, so he can look up into my eyes. _"Tonight I think I might like to try out the use of those sturdy bed-posts over there."_

 _"Sounds like fun!"_ I agree with an evil grin. " _The cuffs should fit you very nicely."_

Mycroft actually looks a little alarmed. _"Ah, no. I'm afraid you misunderstand me –"_

 _"That's a shame,"_ I delicately trail my fingernails down his chest, pressing just enough so he can feel me through his shirt and the vest underneath. _"You might like it. I could make your entire body sing."_ I punctuate the statement by pressing just a little harder as I circle over the hard nubs of his nipples; the instantaneous reaction is even more than I bargained for, though. He reacts as if hit by an electric shock, his face contorting in a tight grimace as he gasps, his body arching back in the chair and almost spilling me off his lap.

Laughing, I grab his shoulders to keep from falling, and he clamps his hands over my wayward fingers, once more completely in control. " _No!"_ he says emphatically, as if to a naughty child.

Still laughing, I ask, _"Why not?"_

 _"It's a matter of trust."_ Oh, he's talking about being tied up.

 _"You ask for a great deal of trust, Mycroft, but you don't give very much,"_ I complain.

He sighs, his thumbs stroking the curve of my palms where his hands curl around mine. _"You have no idea, Angel. I don't... Just allowing you to touch me freely is more than you can imagine..."_

I've been wondering about that for quite a while. _"Why is that? Did something bad happen to you?"_ I ask softly.

 _"No, not at all._ " He looks away from my face and over my shoulder, but with a bemused expression; there's nothing haunting him. _"I've actually led what you might call a charmed life, particularly compared to some."_ His eyes flicker back to mine. _"I prefer not to be touched because very, very few people do it properly, and it HURTS if it isn't! You can't imagine..."_

I shake my head. _"No, I can't. Not at all, actually_." I brush my lips against his in the barest whisper of a kiss, and smile when I feel the responsive catch in his breath. _"So, you'd like to play with tethers and bedposts tonight? I could go for that, but on one condition."_

 _"And what might that be?_ " His eyes narrow, a glint of the negotiator's steel in them.

_"You have to release me before you come."_

He looks puzzled. _"Why?"_

_"Because that's how I want it. I don't know why, I just do. Agreed?"_

He nods, a little reluctantly. _"Very well."_

I beam him a brilliant smile, and we snog a while longer as Mycroft undresses me there on his lap, but the git still won't allow me to even undo a single one of his shirt buttons, even though I try several times to sneak my fingers around and pop one open whilst he's busy elsewhere.

By the time my dress and lingerie have hit the floor, I'm more than ready for the next course. I hop off the chair and pull the black gym bag out of my toy-box, and hand it to Mycroft with a smile. One of the accouterments in there is a nylon tethering strap of adjustable length; once he has slipped the wrist cuffs on me and made them snug, he slings the strap over the top of the nearest bedpost and clips my wrists to it. It's to be standing up, then? That can be fun.

He's calculated the tether precisely so that my arms are stretched high as they can go without discomfort, and I'm forced to nearly stand on tiptoe, leaning my back against the smoothly-carved mahogany bedpost. It feels cold and hard against my flushed skin, and I shiver with anticipation.

Once I'm secured, Mycroft visibly relaxes; his shoulders lower just a little, his face softens just a bit. I would call attention to how much more relaxed he is when I'm helpless, but making an issue of it right now might break the mood – and oh, lord, I certainly don't want to break the mood! I am so turned on that I am trembling.

He steps back a little to admire the picture I make as he removes his cufflinks and meticulously folds back his shirtsleeves. I glimpse the dark purple mottling on his bared left forearm and feel a spark of grim satisfaction – _you deserved that, mister!_ – as well as an unexpected kind of possessive thrill. I've marked him, and he will have a hell of a time explaining it away if anyone sees it.

He follows the direction of my glance with a slight smile, as if he knows my train of thought, then comes over to stand in front of me. He reaches up and cups my face again, running his thumb over the curve of my lips. When he kisses me it's urgent and breathless, his hands roaming over my body unhindered. I undulate in response to his touch, the leather around my wrists creaking every now and again as I twist and moan. He keeps at me with mouth and hands, driving me nearly insane, teasing me to the edge of orgasm and backing off repeatedly until I am a quivering mess, deliciously on fire and panting for release.

Eventually he steps away, smiling smugly at my soft groan. I watch hungrily as he whips off – but folds! – the rest of his clothing. He pulls a wrapped condom from an inner pocket of his jacket and tosses it onto the bed behind me and pauses, once more gathering in the sight of me hanging there, breathless and disheveled – then impulsively presses the full length of himself against me, bare and hard, shivering a little as he buries his face in the curve of my neck. I feel the heat of his breath against my skin, the urgency of his tight embrace. I don't have many brain cells that are firing coherently at the moment, and all I can think is, he wants me as badly as I want him.

Nothing in the way, nothing between us. Now, right now. I grasp the nylon strap above my wrists for more leverage and pull hard, my strong abdomen curling my hips up as I wrap my legs high around Mycroft's waist. Before he can pull away, I work myself around to slide him deep inside me, bare skin shocking against bare skin, and clamp my thighs around his hips like a vise.

He whips his face up to stare wildly at me, eyes wide with surprise and disbelief, but I am too far gone to give a good goddamn what happens. Suspended from my wrists, I lever my back against the bedpost to squirm and slither myself against him, and that tiny bit of friction, combined with the exquisite way he fills the width and depth of me, sends me plunging into a wild orgasm that has me literally banging my head against the bedpost.

When my vision clears, I find I am nose-to-nose with a furious Mycroft. " _Angel!_ " he groans through gritted teeth. " _For the love of god, what are you doing?!"_

I can only swallow and make gurgling noises for a moment, then my head clears a little more and I know exactly what I am doing. A bareback ride – unprotected sex – is incredibly risky behavior. It takes a lot of trust these days to go bareback with a new partner; that, or just plain stupidity. You have to be either willfully ignorant, or truly believe that the other person isn't lying to you about their state of health and their test results.

Tightening my legs around his waist, I work my hips, riding him in and out of me in a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes him shudder and gasp as I hold his eyes with mine. _"I didn't lie about my health status when I signed our contract, Mycroft; did you? Can I trust you, or not? Will you trust me?"_

His face is a perfect chaos of mixed emotions: Intense pleasure, anger, and uncertainty are battling it out there. He pushes his hands against my chest, pulling away, but my legs are very strong. He could get away from me, but he would have to really try.

And he doesn't. He gives up after a moment with a throaty groan, and grips either side of my wriggling arse to give an assist to my gyrations. I kiss him wildly, heedless of the burning in my shoulder muscles, heedless of everything except the heated coupling of our bodies as we rock and writhe together.

It doesn't take long at all for him to come, but I'm actually a little disappointed when he does. I expected this big mind-blowing explosion from him – I mean, bareback, right? – but all that happens is that he curls tightly around me in a long, shuddering exhale that keeps going and going and going, his face buried in the crook of my neck.

Finally he comes up for air, eyes closed, gasping a little, and leans his arm on the post above my head for balance. I slide my feet to the floor, taking the strain off of my protesting shoulders. Mycroft looks up with a frown at my tethered wrists and says, still out of breath, _"Oh, I didn't...Very sorry...I did agree..._ " He reaches up and unbuckles the leathers, and I slip my hands free, wriggling my shoulders to work out the kinks.

 _"Sorry,_ " I tell him. _"I kind of changed the game on you."_

 _"You certainly did,"_ he growls accusingly, letting go of the post and nearly falling over.

 _"Lie down before you fall down!"_ I scold.

He leans forward onto the bed and flops down on his stomach, and I curl up close beside him. He lies there, still breathing heavily and shuddering every now and then, for quite a while. There are shadows gathering now as the sunlight finally fades, and the room is still except for the continuing soft ripple of piano music.

 _"That was...incredibly stupid,_ " Mycroft finally says, into the mattress. _"I cannot believe you did that. I cannot believe I let you."_

 _"You have trust issues,_ " I intone. _"It needed to be done."_

He rolls his head to the side so he can glare at me with one fierce, unblinking blue eye. I smile serenely, knowing I'm right. He does have trust issues, and they interfere with his effectiveness.

Suddenly his shoulders start shaking, and for a horrible moment I think he's weeping – then I realize that he's laughing. Really laughing, not smirking or snarking, but real laughter. He rolls over, still chuckling. " _How?"_ he asks. _"How is it that even handcuffed and strung up, you can still find a way to make trouble?"_

_"Just talented, I guess?"_

He just looks at me and shakes his head, something indefinable in his eyes for a moment, then abruptly leaps up from the bed and heads toward the bathroom; I hear the shower run. Damn, I think I missed my chance for a cuddle.

I rise, wipe myself down, and fetch my new dressing gown, a pretty light-blue satin, from the hook on the back of the door. Throwing it around me, I put on one of the small bedside lamps and settle into the plush armchair by the window. Mycroft shortly emerges from the bathroom, naked but dry, his hair already neatly combed. He spares me a glance, then sets to getting dressed. I watch him, smiling when I catch the way he appreciatively fingers the soft fabric of each piece before donning it.

 _"What are you grinning at?"_ he finally asks, irritated. He glares at me, buttoning his shirt front by feel.

 _"I'm thinking what a wondrous thing your clothes cupboard at home must be._ "

He pauses, then looks away to gather up his trousers. _"I don't know about wondrous, but it's well-organized...and spacious, I suppose. 'Vestis virum facit,' you know."_

I actually do know just enough Latin to be dangerous. _"'Clothes make the man,'"_ I shrug. _"I suppose so."_

Settling in his braces, Mycroft raises a brow at my scornful tone. _"You would do well to heed that yourself."_

 _"I don't care to be a man, thank you,_ " I answer tartly.

 _"You don't seem inclined that way,"_ he observes, _"However, I meant that you'd do well to consider how your clothing defines you and conveys information, far more than you imagine."_

_"To you, maybe."_

_"Well, yes, I might notice more than most, but even the untrained eye perceives. For example, you don't take yourself seriously, and your attire reflects that._ " Sitting on the side of the bed, he pulls on his socks, adjusting the garters to perfect tension before putting on his shoes.

_"I happen to think fashion should be fun, Mycroft. I don't like boring clothes."_

He fastens on his gold cuff-links before taking up his tie from the wooden rack. _"Frivolity is the badge of immaturity, Angel. At some point, one must assume the responsibility of being taken seriously in the world."_ He stands in front of the mirror on the door of the wardrobe, expertly tying and snugging up the striped silk. _"Your penchant for historical dress goes beyond eclectic, you know, and into the realm of affectation. And bad taste._ "

Grrrr. _"I happen to like 60's retro, it works for me. And there's nothing wrong with my taste."_

 _"Do you think so?"_ he says casually, smoothing down his tie and taking up his waistcoat.

 _"Yes. I do._ " I run a hand through my fringed bob, the haircut he had arranged for me to have. _"Lucky thing, too, or else I wouldn't have agreed to have this hairstyle, you know."_ I pause, remembering something that John Watson had mentioned, and decide to toss it out there – why not? _"Speaking of that, just who is Miriam, anyway?"_

Mycroft's fingers pause in threading the fine gold watch-chain through the buttonhole of his waistcoat, and he glances at me briefly. " _The most beautiful woman in the world,_ " he confesses, ever so slightly abashed, and makes a show of fastening the chain and checking his watch.

 _The most beautiful woman in the world_. And then I know, I just know, and it's not a big deal after all. It's not nasty or gross; it's actually kind of sweet. A child's love is pure, until the world teaches him there such a thing as impurity. Maybe Mycroft was lucky and missed that particular teaching, or it maybe it just didn't stick.

 _"Is your mum still the most beautiful woman in the world?_ " I ask with a smile.

He takes up his suit jacket, flicking invisible bits of lint off the back of it. _"Yes. Always,_ " he says simply.

_"Then, I'm flattered."_

Mycroft casts on his jacket and settles his cuffs and collar, then gives me a searching look. " _The resemblance was superficial. To be honest, I don't even see it any more."_

_"What do you see now?"_

His mouth twists sardonically. _"Angelica Elizabeth Talbot, aged twenty-three."_

I don't answer; there isn't any need to.

He turns toward the mirror to fold and fluff his pocket square, openly admiring the effect. Fully suited and serene, Mycroft is suddenly all business.

He puts his hands in his pockets, and regards me with a frown. _"Now then,"_ he says gravely, _"The recent change in circumstances require that I go abroad for the next three days, possibly longer. My plane departs early tomorrow morning. You will still have a security detail assigned to you, of course. Although it would be my preference that you stay indoors –"_

_"Mycroft, I can't be on house arrest every time things get a little sticky for you! I can't, and I won't."_

He weathers my outburst patiently, then continues. _"It would be my preference, but I won't ask it. However, I do think it reasonable to ask that you avoid any questionable associates and potentially dangerous situations."_ He looks at me with dramatized suffering. _"Please?"_

I can't help but laugh. _"All right! I promise to be as boring as your granny until you give me the all-clear, okay?"_

 _"Good lord, don't do that,"_ he says with genuine horror. _"My grandmother was thoroughly disreputable. Just...stay out of trouble, Angel. I need to concentrate my energies on matters at hand._ " With one last glance at himself in the mirror, Mycroft flips out his pocket-watch to check the time, gives me a nod, then is out the door and gone before I can even frame another question.

I sigh as I hear the door downstairs close. It would be nice if he could do fond farewells instead of abrupt exits, but I suppose I have to pick my battles. I put away the tethers, and head for the bathroom to take a shower myself, mulling things over. There's a lot to mull.

A thoroughly disreputable granny? Just what kind of family does he come from, anyway?


	27. "There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact." ~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The next morning is downright stormy, and the cool air is a welcome change from yesterday's almost tropical mugginess. It'll be great weather for a brisk run, if I can get myself out there before it starts pouring. I dally around, though, treating myself to breakfast in bed, lounging with my laptop propped on a pillow and getting lost in the internet.

Before I know it I've spent the entire morning online, mostly on the Agency escorts' forum. One of the girls recently picked up a regular client who appears to be a prominent MP with a taste for some outrageous kink, and her posts are incredibly entertaining. Everyone is enjoying it so much that an informal competition has kicked up to see who has had the most bizarre experience in their escorting career –– and the stories are VERY interesting. Educational, even.

It's pretty hard to tear myself away, and by the time I actually get out the door the skies are looming dark grey and the wind is whipping through the trees, although the threatening rain showers are only a heavy mist at the moment. The park is pretty much deserted; even the chess-players seem to have hidden indoors today, and it's just me and a few die-hard dog-walkers braving the weather. I kind of like the excitement of a good storm, although I wonder if Mycroft's flight had to be delayed.

He didn't exactly say so, but I am pretty sure that his trip has to do with Cobb's attempt to escape; _Scuttled out from under the protector who was ruthlessly exploiting him_ was how he put it. I'm torn between being glad to be a part of the effort to nail that swine, and embarrassed at what a bumbling puppy I've been. And, I have to admit, I'm still more than a little cross about how casually Mycroft manipulated me into doing exactly what he wanted. It's not that I disagree with what he's trying to do, it's just...kind of insulting, I guess.

The hell of it is, I don't think he would care one whit if I told him I felt insulted; he'd probably think I was silly for expecting my sense of self-importance to be assuaged by him or anyone else. Maybe I am being silly. Anyway, he doesn't seem to care a whole lot how I feel about much of anything, really. I mean, he'd rather I were happy than unhappy, I think, but I don't get the idea that it matters to him terribly much. I wish I knew how he felt about me...

I realize that I'm starting to obsess about someone else's feelings for me, and that is about as pathetic as it gets. _For god's sake, Angelica, you're not some dewy-eyed teenager!_ I take my mind off it by putting on a burst of speed, sprinting as fast as I can push myself, until I'm too winded to keep the pace any longer.

Slowing down to my normal lope, I round the bend and head toward home. I'm wet with misty rain rather than sweat today, and my fringe is plastered to my forehead; every now and then I can feel big, cold drips of water falling off the end of my high pony-tail and hitting the back of my neck. About a block from home, it starts to rain in earnest, fat drops plopping down all around, and the wind picks up as well. It feels like the edge of a real squall, and I instinctively hurry my pace to avoid being caught out in the downpour. Of course, I'm already so soaking wet it hardly matters, but a prickle still runs up my back, irrationally urging me to get under cover as quickly as possible.

I pound up the narrow cobbled mews, aiming myself straight for the blue door as I fumble in the pocket of my running shorts for the key. I wrest it open and fling myself inside just as the squall breaks outside, a wall of cold rain slashing down. Breathless, I laugh at myself for my mad flight, and laugh some more with relief at being inside my safe, snug harbour once more. Now, what I need most is a hot shower, a dry towel, and a cup of tea. I strip off my dripping wet shirt and thick running bra in one motion, dropping them in a sodden heap on the tiled floor, and hook my thumbs in the waistband of my shorts to strip them down as well, when I hear someone call "Hullo?" from the kitchen.

There are two jackets hung on the coat tree in front of me. Well, a jacket and a coat. Both still glistening with water droplets.

 _"Who's there?"_ I call out, fear clenching my gut. _"Who's there?!?"_

John Watson comes out of my kitchen, and halts in the entryway. _"Angelica! What are you doing here?_ " His eyes are wide as saucers, flicking down to take in my bare chest, then back up again to my face.

 _"John? What the bloody hell are YOU doing here!"_ I grab up my discarded shirt and fumble with the wet fabric, trying to find the bottom of it.

He looks at the stairs beside me, then back at me. _"What are you doing here?"_ he repeats.

 _"Goddamn it, I live here!"_ I shout, fighting the soggy shirt over my head. _"What the hell are you doing in my flat? How did you get in?"_

 _"He came through the front door. With me."_ I hear Sherlock's voice as he comes pattering down the steps from the bedroom, and I get the shirt down over my torso in time to see him watching me from the bottom step with deep loathing on his fine features.

 _"What the bloody hell –"_ I begin, but John pushes past me to corner Sherlock at the foot of the steps.

_"When we broke in here, Sherlock, you said this was essential to the case. You said, the tenant was away –"_

_"No-o, I said the renter was abroad. That being the one who pays the rent, and he is out of country at the moment, he left this mor –"_

_"GET OUT!"_ I shout, rounding on them. _"Get out of here, right now, both of you! Get your jackets, and get out, or I'm calling the police NOW!"_ I pull my mobile out of its waterproof, holding it up in the air threateningly. _"I mean it. Out!"_

John holds out a staying hand, but Sherlock merely gives me a hard stare. _"Do you really want the police involved? Really?"_ His eyes glitter at me coldly, his mouth is tight and hard. Why is he so angry? I'm the one who should be angry!

_"I could care less if the police are involved. I've done nothing wrong, you're the ones who have broken into my flat!"_

Sherlock's eyes narrow. _"It's not your flat. It's my brother's."_

John looks up at Sherlock, who is focused on me. _"Wha–? This is, this is Mycroft's flat?"_ He looks at me for confirmation, but I'm busy staring down Sherlock.

_"It doesn't matter whose name is on the lease; I'm the tenant, this is my residence, and you are trespassing. Get out, or I'll have you thrown out."_

_"Are you sure? Do you really want me to turn your little toys over to the police?"_ Sherlock comes down the last step, and opens his palm, holding it out toward me. There are several tiny black cubes laying there; I peer at them and, despite myself, feel a prick of curiosity.

 _"What are they?_ " I ask.

 _"As if you don't know,"_ he says scornfully, but he's watching my face carefully.

I look from him to John. _"No, I really don't know. What are they?"_

John frowns at me. _"Those are surveillance cameras. Wireless spy cameras. We found them all over this flat..."_

 _"Spy cameras!"_ I look more closely, and can see that on one flat side of the cubes there is a tiny, convex glass lens. I suddenly have a horrible suspicion. _"Could they be...could they be Mycroft's? I mean it's a little extreme, even for him, but..."_

Sherlock slowly brushes past me and goes into the sitting room, commenting, _"Mycoft always uses EU-49's, Swiss manufacture. These are Chinese, and obviously substandard. Shoddy, even. Mycroft wouldn't touch them."_ So they can't be his; I feel a wash of pure relief at that.

John clears his throat at me. _"So, just to be clear, this is actually Mycroft's flat, then? And, you live here, Angelica?"_

Eying Sherlock, I glance at John and admit, _"Yes."_

He frowns deeply. _"You told me – well, you implied – that you and he weren't... that he wasn't..."_

It's kind of embarrassing, but mainly because John is kind of embarrassed. _"I lied. Sorry, but it was really none of your business, so I lied."_

John looks away and shoves his hands in his pockets. _"Right. Well. There you are."_ he mutters.

Sherlock abruptly returns to the small entryway. _"Why are you disappointed in her, John? She's so obviously meretricious."_ He moves in on me until we are nearly nose to nose, and his voice is quietly venomous. _"What else have you been lying about? Or, rather,"_ he turns away and stalks back to the sitting room. _"It might be easier to ask, what, if anything, have you told the truth about?"_

 _"Why bother asking? You've obviously made up your mind,"_ I snap. The warmth from my run is starting to wear off, and I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself. _"Look, I'm soaked to the skin, and freezing. I'm going to go upstairs and dry off and change, and I'll be right back down. I'm not phoning the cops – but not because I'm afraid of anything! I want to find out what the hell is going on!"_

Without waiting for a reply, I turn and bounce up the stairs. As I dry off and throw on some yoga pants and a t-shirt, I try to wrap my head around all this. Somebody––and I don't know who, how or why––bugged my flat. Sherlock and John broke in while I was out running, supposedly to further a case that they're on...and just happened to think of checking for spy cameras...uh-huh.

Sherlock could have planted them himself. I don't know why, but he could have. It makes as much sense as anyone else doing it.

I quickly towel-dry my hair and pad back downstairs. They are both in the sitting room now, John slouched back in an armchair and Sherlock standing by the window.

 _"Much better,_ " I comment. The looks that I get from both of them are unreservedly hostile. No surprise about Sherlock, but I'm a little sad to see John looking so sulky and angry. I perch myself on an arm of the sofa, ready to bolt if I have to. _"You've got to believe that those aren't my cameras, that I knew nothing about them. What would I gain from bugging my own flat? I'm not into home movies!_ " I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

Sherlock paces around the room and stops in front of me. _"It's not what YOU would gain, it's what your employer would gain."_

I'm confused. _"Mycroft?"_

Sherlock gives me a disdainful look. _"Not your client, your employer,"_ he snaps _. "And no more lies, if you please. I'm quite aware of whom you work for."_

I consider. _"The Agency? Why would they bother?"_

Sherlock moves in close to me again, looking down, so I stand up to keep on equal footing. I'm pleased to discover that, even barefoot, I can look him eye-to-eye. Still, his stare is intimidating.

 _"Can you really be that obtuse?"_ He sounds more like he's musing to himself than trying to insult me, but he's still plenty insulting. _"It doesn't seem possible that he could tolerate it."_ His nose wrinkles and lip curls a little with revulsion. _"It's rather like bestiality, really, isn't it –"_

The crack of my hand across Sherlock's face surprises me as much as it does him; I didn't know I was going to do that until I feel my palm stinging afterwards. I tense myself for a fight, but he just bows his head mockingly and moves away, his pale cheeks splotched red on both sides, although the side with my hand-print is a little darker.

Sherlock stands with his back to me, looking out the window. _"Who owns the Agency, Miss Talbot?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"You don't even know whom you work for?"_ he's openly derisive.

_"No, and I don't blame them for keeping their identity a secret; the idiotic prostitution laws make it so that they're the ones bearing the risk, not me."_

_"So you work for a nameless, faceless Agency...."_ Sherlock pauses in front of Mycroft's cut-glass decanters on the sideboard, looking down with a sniff, then turns back to me. _"Let me put a name on it for you: Charles Augustus Magnussun."_

 _"Magnussun?"_ Now it's my turn to laugh derisively. _"What the hell would a media tycoon want with an escort service? If he was going to diversify his business empire, I don't think it would be into that."_

Hands behind his back, Sherlock roams back over toward me. _"But really, isn't it the perfect business for a blackmailer?"_

I consider. _"It might be, if the escorts were willing to go along with it. But, I've never been approached about supplying information on any of my clients, ever! Actually, it's just the opposite. The Agency is fanatical about protecting client privacy. We escorts are even forbidden to talk to each other about clients."_ My legs are still tired and a little wobbly, so I park my bum back on the edge of the sofa. " _So, you believe that Magnussun is a blackmailer, and that he runs the Agency I work for? What kind of proof do you have?"_

John shifts forward in his chair. _"Sherlock wouldn't say something like that unless he were certain."_ John glances up at Sherlock, and I catch an unspoken tag-line, _–– or for some reason he needed you to think he was._

I do not trust either of these blokes as far as I could toss them. Sherlock obviously hates me, and there's no question whose side John is on. _"Okay. Just for now, let's assume I take your word for this. Why would Magnussun bother bugging this flat? Mycroft isn't worried about being blackmailed by anyone! He told me so himself, that he has no public position that could be damaged by scandal; besides, there's nothing...irregular in our relations. Nothing that he could be threatened with."_ I'm trying very hard not to think about somebody secretly watching us having sex. It's a horrible, horrible feeling, and I'm angry for Mycroft as much as for myself. If I ever catch the bloody bastard responsible, there will be hell to pay!

 _"We only have your word for that. And we've seen what that's worth._ " Abruptly, dramatically, Sherlock flops himself on the sofa, lying stretched out with his hands behind his head, and his feet toward me. I glance down at his shoes on the upholstery; I hate when people do that. Sherlock follows my glance and gives me a tight little smile. The brat is going to rub it in that this isn't really my flat.

 _"Well then,"_ Sherlock drawls, " _Just for now, let's assume I take your word for this."_ He punctuates that with another little smile. _"You had no knowledge of your employer's identity, and no idea that anyone had bugged this flat. You are merely an honest whore trying to make an honest living, if such a thing exists. Why is it, then,"_ he sits up suddenly, feigning consternation, _"Why is it that you were close friends with an extremely well-connected drug-runner and smuggler? Why have you been meeting with his criminal connections? Why are you now a member of their sales staff, so to speak? Or, are you just a customer?"_

I open my mouth, and close it again. I never considered how recent events might look from the outside, I never thought I would have to. _"I didn't know Steen was running drugs; I knew he was mixed up in some terrible things, but I didn't know what. As for the rest, well, it's a long story! But, Mycroft knows about everything that I've been doing, and if he's on board, why should you have a problem with it?"_

Sherlock jumps off the sofa again, restless. " _Because my brother and I often disagree in our methods. And, I suspect that his judgment might be impaired."_ He says the last bit reluctantly.

 _"That's harsh,"_ I comment. From what I know of the two of them, that's about the harshest criticism Sherlock could make. " _And completely untrue. I don't think there's anything wrong with his judgment at the moment ––"_

_"Well, obviously you wouldn't, would you?"_

I throw up my hands. _"Right. No matter what I tell you, you're not going to believe me, so I guess there's no point in further conversation, is there? And by the way, you're off the case, did you know that? Mycroft told me that he deduced who shot Steen, and who gave the order for it."_ Sherlock has no reaction to that at all, so I glance at John, but his face remains stony as well. He obviously told Sherlock already, but no big deal.

 _"The information hasn't been passed along to the police,"_ Sherlock states flatly.

_"No, Mycroft said he was going to see to the matter himself."_

_"And you trust him?_ " Sherlock's nose wrinkles up in disdain, his voice is mocking. _"Why?"_

I don't deign to answer that, instead popping up off the arm of the sofa toward the kitchen. _"Well! It's certainly been delightful conversing with you gentlemen. I'm going to put the kettle on. Will you have a cup of tea before you leave, or are you leaving right now?"_

Neither of them answer, so I shrug and go to hide in my kitchen for a few minutes, putting on the kettle and leaning against the far wall, out of view. Sherlock's hostility toward me is so maddening! He just won't give me the benefit of the doubt, not an inch, and there's no reason...

No reason, except that I'm a living, breathing testament to his big brother's human frailty. If Sherlock looks up to Mycroft at all –– and I suspect that he does –– then he's likely to resent the hell out of anything or anyone that reveals his brother's less admirable sides. The problem with idols is that they invariably turn out to have feet of clay.

I can hear them talking in low tones over there, and I'm hoping that John can talk some sense into Sherlock. Yeah, right; the blind leading the blind. When my tea is ready, I gather up my mug and pad back out to the sitting room.

 _"So, any more accusations to hurl at me? Any more sneering to be done?"_ I curl up in the vacant armchair. _"Better get it in now, because I have a full afternoon planned of clandestine dealings with criminal characters and shooting up armfuls of quality smack, followed by as much lying and smuggling as I can find the time for. How about you?"_ I ask brightly.

Both men stare at me for a moment, Sherlock frowning fiercely. Finally he says, _"You are are either innocent, or you are one of the best liars I have ever seen. And I have seen a few."_

 _"Better than Mary?"_ John's mouth twists a little as he looks up at Sherlock.

 _"At least as good."_ Sherlock moves closer to my chair again, looking down at me like I'm an interesting specimen or something. I sip my tea, deciding that there's no point in standing up and being all confrontational, or even trying to convince him of anything. Nothing I can say is going to change what he thinks. He's a bit irrational where Mycroft is concerned.

Ha! Just as Mycroft is kind of irrational about things that concern Sherlock. That's pretty funny. I look up into Sherlock's eyes with a genuine smile.

His frown of concentration turns into an annoyed sneer. _"Don't try to seduce me, Miss Talbot. It might work on John, but never on me."_

 _"I'm not!"_ I object.

 _"I haven't been seduced by her!"_ objects John.

Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off my face. _"That's not what Mrs. Hudson said."_

_"Well, Mrs. Hudson is wrong."_

_"Not about things like that. She knows her tarts."_

I have to snort at that, remembering the evening when I went calling at Baker Street. _"Takes one to know one!"_

 _"I suppose it does."_ Sherlock folds his arms across his chest, still looking down at me.

I don't like him staring like that, so I verbally poke at him. _"You know, I'm not convinced that those cameras aren't yours, Sherlock."_

He looks disgusted and turns away. _"Don't be revolting."_

_"Well, you had one of your homeless network people watching my comings and goings to pinpoint this place! Why is it such a stretch to think you would bug it as well?"_

Sherlock rounds on me again. _"I haven't had anyone watching you. I didn't need to. It was ridiculously easy to locate this flat,"_ he says disdainfully.

I'm surprised. _"So, Ferret Lady wasn't one of your spies?"_

John laughs, _"Ferret Lady? That's a new one."_

 _"Not one of mine."_ Sherlock says firmly. _"Why did you think this person was spying on you? She was probably just looking for a handout."_

 _"Because she told me so! I struck up a conversation with her, and she admitted it, although she wouldn't tell me who was paying her. Mycroft said she was undoubtedly working for you, that it was an old game and I should pay it no mind...."_ I swear that Sherlock's ears flush a little pink at the edge; evidently it embarrasses him that I know about that. _"But if you're sure she wasn't one of yours, then who was she working for?"_

 _"Whom. No idea,"_ Sherlock murmurs, and roams back to the window.

 _"Have you seen her recently?"_ John shifts around, and glances at my mug of tea. Well, I offered already; now he can just suffer.

_"No, not since last week. And there haven't been any other obvious watchers, besides my usual security team..."_

_"You have a security detail?_ " John seems slightly incredulous.

Before I can answer, Sherlock cuts in languidly, _"Yes, Mycroft does like to look after his things."_

Things. I roll my eyes and sip my tea.

John turns his head toward Sherlock. _"CCTV cameras outside as well?"_

_"Of course, although they would be on a private channel. He has his own security network."_

_"Hmm. So he knows we're here?"_

_"Undoubtedly."_

_"What's he going to do about it?"_

_"Absolutely nothing. Well, nothing directly. Rules of the game. He'll never mention it, neither will I, but he'll make an indirect response of some kind, eventually. When he thinks I'm not expecting it."_

John and I exchange a look, and I know that he's thinking the same thing I am; _Right, those two are something else!_

I sigh, and finish the last of my tea, thinking furiously. So. Ferret Lady skulks around to pinpoint which flat is mine. Surveillance cameras are planted in here at some time, I'm not sure when. Same person responsible for both? Obviously Mycroft is the target, but why? Blackmail is unlikely to be the motive, so what is?

Sherlock comes back to the sofa, this time sitting down on it properly. _"Who else has a key to this flat?"_

_"I don't know. Mycroft, of course. I don't know about the security people ––Oh! The cleaners. They come every Monday and Thursday."_

_"Have they been here when you're away?_

_"Every time! I absolutely hate being in a place when it's cleaned, so I always disappear for a few hours when they come."_

John leans forward, elbows on knees. _"Well, that sounds quite convenient for them. What cleaning company?"_

I envision the cleaners pulling their kit out of the big, white van, with a splashy purple-and-green logo on it... _"Thistle Domestics._ " I feel a surge of excitement. _"That has to be it! The cleaners. They have to have been the ones planting the cameras, I gave them the perfect opportunity every time they came!"_

 _"Yes,"_ Sherlock says thoughtfully, _"You gave them the perfect opportunity."_

I reach down to put my empty mug on the floor. _"Accidentally! I certainly wasn't intending to help them out."_

 _"Of course not."_ I peer at Sherlock carefully, but his voice and face are so neutral that I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. I decide to assume he's being sincere.

 _"Right."_ I sigh and rearrange my long legs in the chair. _"I just wish I knew why they were bothering with it."_ A thought strikes me. _"What if it isn't Mycroft they're after? What if it's me? The Pigman, Doreshchenko, is pretty desperate to find a copy of the code-book to decipher the Torch document. He knows I had the Torch, maybe he thinks I have a code-book as well?"_

Sherlock shakes his head. _"There was definitely only one copy of the code-book, and the person who had it––"_

_"Has flown the coop, with Mycroft at his heels!"_

_"In a manner of speaking, although apprehending suspects isn't in Mycroft's current job description, you know. He's gone to negotiate for Mr. Cobb's extradition."_

_"Have they recovered the code book?"_

Sherlock says blandly, _"It's in safekeeping."_

I have the feeling that it would be a display of too much interest to continue asking questions about this, so I close my mouth with a snap. I really hope that they've got all the lab notes and all the code books, though, and that the whole Torch business can be laid to rest. And that Mr. Cobb goes to prison for treason, at least, and a whole bunch of other things besides.

I realize that Sherlock is waiting to see if I'll ask more questions about the Torch. I just smile at him, and wait.

He leans back on the sofa, hands clasped behind his dark curls. Finally, he asks, _"Have you ever considered, Miss Talbot, how many coincidences surround you? A flurry of coincidence. You happen to work for a vicious blackmailer, you happen to be close friends with the man who steals the Torch document, who happens to leave it with you for safekeeping, you happen to become acquainted with the one police detective who would bring it to me for examination, then you happen to attend a function where the man who has the Torch code-book happens to be meeting with his prospective buyers; all that, and you also just happen to be in Mycroft's employ as well. Surely even you can grasp that it's a strange series of 'coincidences?'"_

I ignore the insult. _"But there's something that you're not taking into account–– I'm not involved in any of this by my own design. I didn't choose Mycroft, he chose me. He had to have known about most of these connections, I can't imagine that he wouldn't know. Yet, he still chose me. Why?"_

Tension ripples over Sherlock's face. _"He might not know as much as you think. He's...not infallible. As for why he chose you ––"_ Sherlock jumps up from the sofa to roam around the room again. _"There is a certain resemblance, especially with that hair-cut...and that also cannot be coincidence... Someone knew his weaknesses, and set you up to prey on them. You have obviously been calculated as bait!"_ He spits out the last word angrily, but he's not looking at me.

 _"Um, I beg to differ with you there,"_ I say mildly. _"Mycroft himself was the one who arranged for me to look like this –– on a whim, he said."_ I fluff my drying fringe a little. _"I think it was more of a tribute than anything else, really._ " Sherlock stops prowling around and looks at me, his face unreadable. _"The resemblance is actually very minor," I continue, "If you've seen one pretty blue-eyed blonde with great cheekbones, I think you've just about seen them all."_ I stand up and stretch, then lazily scoop up my mug from the floor.

Sherlock steps in front of me again, John rising to stand silently at his shoulder. _"So you honestly believe that all of this is mere chance?"_

_"Nope. I definitely see the hand of a mastermind in it. Mycroft's hand, to be specific. No doubt there's another player or two in it as well, but I'm certain that it's Mycroft's show."_

Sherlock narrows his eyes. _"And you are content to let him run it? To run you? Do you enjoy being a pawn?"_

 _"No!"_ The vehemence in my voice surprises me. _"No, I don't like it at all, but I don't hate it enough to give up everything else. I LIKE being involved in this spy stuff! It's exciting, and I feel like I'm part of something important. I like that. So if the only way I get to play the game is as a pawn, well, then, a pawn it is."_ I shrug philosophically.

John points out, _"Pawns are expendable, Angelica._ "

 _"So are queens,"_ I tell him. _"It all depends on your strategy."_

 _"Every piece is expendable,"_ Sherlock adds, _"Except the king."_ He moves a half-step closer, daring me to stand my ground. _"One last question, Miss Talbot. Tell me, what is my brother to you?"_

The question takes me by surprise, and I fumble it for a few seconds. Sherlock jumps into the breach, mockingly helpful. _"Is he your patron? Your client? Your pal?"_ His lip curls again with disdain, _"Boyfriend? Lover? Sugar daddy?"_

I repress a giggle at that last one, the term strikes me as ludicrous when applied to Mycroft –– but here I am again. Just what does a mistress call the man who engages her? For such a rich language, English has a few surprising bare spots. I could say, _He told me I'm his mistress,_ but that's what I am to him, not what he is to me. What is he to me?

 _"He's Mycroft,"_ I shrug helplessly. _"What else can you say?"_

Sherlock blinks. I don't think he was expecting that. He gives me one last measuring look, then whirls away to the entry and takes down his coat. _"It's time we were going."_

John hesitates before following suit. He presses his lips together for a moment, then admits to me, _"I... think you are owed an apology for us breaking into your flat like this._ " He glances over at Sherlock, who is buttoning his coat against the rain. _"But there's a lot at stake here. There is a lot more going on than you realize ––"_

 _"If ignorance is bliss, then she is in ecstasy,"_ Sherlock pronounces, flipping up his collar.

John gives him a Look, then turns back to me. _"––and it's not all fun and games. You could wind up dead, like your friend. You really need to stay out of things you don't understand, okay? There are healthier ways for you to get some excitement."_

 _"Thanks,"_ I tell him as he goes to get his jacket. _"And, John?"_ He turns, zipping it and fastening the collar tight. _"I'm sorry I lied to you. I can tell that bothered you."_

 _"Well, you were right. It was none of my business."_ He gives me a quick smile, and they're gone.

I turn the deadbolt after the door closes behind them, but it's just a gesture; my sense of security is now totally shattered. I go to make another cup of tea, then stare at the whistling kettle and turn it off, instead going to the the sideboard and pouring myself a strong drink. Damn, damn, damn. I want a smoke, too, so I grab my case and go sit by the opened bedroom window with my brandy and my cigarette.

The rain has settled into a steady light shower, whipping against the buildings as the wind tosses the tree branches around mercilessly; the dark clouds overhead are so thick that the day seems much later than it actually is.

I think I convinced Sherlock of my innocence; by the time he left, he was less hostile, and so was John. I wish that Sherlock would tell me why he thinks that the person who owns the Agency is involved in blackmail. I guess just because I haven't been approached about passing on information about clients, it doesn't mean that other escorts haven't –– and they might have been paid big money for the information. I mean, just some of the stuff that they've been talking about on the forum this morning, that would make for some juicy blackmail, if you could produce even a tiny smudge of proof...but of course you'd have to have proof, wouldn't you? Like those photos that the Russian, Mica, had of Cobb and Calypso...

I exhale my smoke out the window, breathing in the sharpness of wet grass and pavement. So, now what? I'd like to go after the cleaners and find out who (whom? damn Sherlock!) they are working for, but I gave my word to Mycroft that I would try to avoid getting into trouble until he gets back. Not that that will stop me, exactly, but I will try to behave. Besides, I reckon that Thistle Domestics was John and Sherlock's next stop, and I don't want to be scurrying around in their wake. What else is there?

Ferret Lady. I believe Sherlock when he said that she wasn't one of his –– so who does she work for? I wasn't very successful with getting information out of her before, but I didn't try all that hard, either. Now, I'm a lot more motivated.

And, to find her? Sara. Ferret Lady would have given Sara some sort of address when she took Edgar to the animal clinic, even if it was just the day centre that she frequents, or her hostel, if she's not sleeping rough. I stub out my cig in the little saucer that I brought up for an ashtray, and close the window to keep the wind and rain out before pulling out my phone. It's midday on a Tuesday, Sara's probably with a patient or something, but I can at least leave a message.

I'm in luck. My sister picks it up immediately, although it's probably because she's still worried about me; I can tell that she's with a patient, so the convo is brief and to the point. After I assure her that I am well and whole, Sara quickly pulls up Edgar's records and gives me the address of the homeless day centre listed as a contact. I jot it down, reassure Sara once more that I'm really quite well, and promise to phone her again later this evening for a proper chat.

Looking up the day centre's address on my phone, I discover that it's not too far away from here; only about ten minutes by tube, although walking to and from the stations and waiting for the train will take a lot longer. I'd best get started.

As I start to pull off my clothes, I pause for a moment and consider; is this avoiding "questionable associates?" I mean, I can't imagine that going to a homeless centre is a dangerous situation, and Mona herself is no more dangerous than that ferret she wears in her brassiere, but I can't in good conscience say that she's not questionable. Still, hard to see what harm could come of it.

It's no weather for miniskirts today, so I dig out my skinny jeans and add a few extra layers over my crop top, finishing with my brown leather jacket to keep the rain off, and my ankle boots to keep my feet dry. And, of course, my insanely cheerful umbrella.

I'm not too wild about the crowds on the tube at the best of times, but on a wet day, it simply _reeks_ of damp humanity. Wet clothes, moist hair, ugh. I make the trip stoically, and by the time I'm walking along the block checking addresses, the rain is beginning to turn back to heavy mist, and the wind is calming down.

The day centre isn't hard to find, a big old brick storefront of some sort that's been facelifted with a bright and modern marquee. I contemplate the building for a moment...it's not very tall, very unlikely to have a lift of any sort in it that I would have to go near.....

God, is this going to be how it is for me from now on, casing buildings to make sure they don't have lifts before I can enter? That's really mental.

I square up my shoulders, and go in. The place is more populated than I would have thought for a summer day, although the rain likely has something to do with it. This must be the main lounge area; there are maybe twenty tables of various shapes and sizes, with plastic chairs in cheerful primary colours. The people sitting at them are playing cards or chatting over a cup of tea, although some are just staring off into space. The far end has more occupied chairs, clustered around a blaring telly. I start to make a slow circuit of the room, looking for Mona the Ferret Lady.

Before long I feel a tap on my arm, and turn around to see that she's spotted me first. Her wrinkled face is creased in a smile, and for an awful moment I am sure that she's going to hug me, but then she manages to control herself.

 _"Well, now, if it in't you, little Angelica!"_ she says happily. _"How 'ave you been?"_

 _"Fine, thanks,"_ I answer automatically. _"How are you? How is Edgar? Are his eyes better?"_

She smiles even more broadly, the wrinkle that is her mouth threatening to split her face wide open with delight. " _You came to check on 'em! I knew it!"_ she crows.

I admit that one of my purposes here was indeed to check on Edgar, and Mona lays a finger on her lips, then crooks it at me to lean closer to her. I do, reluctantly, and she raises the other arm up were I can look down her sleeve –– and I see two beady eyes peering back at me. Edgar pokes his pink nose out a little, twitches a whisker, then pulls his head back in like a turtle into its shell.

 _"He looks fantastic!_ " I whisper to Mona, and she nods delightedly.

 _"Those eye drops worked a treat, an' fast, too! Your sister is such a dear, she checked 'im all over, gave 'im a proper examination. Edgar told me he really liked 'er."_ Mona grasps my elbow tightly. _"C'mon, why don' you have a cuppa here with me? It's not very good, but it's free."_

We settle in at one of the smaller tables with our disposable cups of watery tea, and I have my first-ever long chat with a homeless person. She's slightly mad, of course, but once you accept that, she's actually very pleasant conversation. As she's rambling out her life story to me, I listen to her train of thought jump oddly around and think, wow, classic mild schizophrenia. Lack of personal hygiene, rambling thought patterns, oddly slurred speech, paranoia, delusional perceptions... I ask her if she's taking any medications to help with _"you know, things."_

 _"They're always tryin' to poison me, if tha' whatcher mean,"_ she grumbles. _"Little white tablets, the little white tablets. Make my stomach hurt, from the poison."_

That's classic, too, the paranoia interfering with treatment. I sigh. She could improve; what she needs is a minder, someone who cares enough to convince her to take her meds and other treatment, but I'm not volunteering for it. I feel a twinge of guilt about that; if I were a better person, I would try to help her.

She starts to go off on a wobbling tangent about the government using mobile phones for mind-control, and I gently interrupt her to get to what I came for.

_"Mona, I really, really need to know who hired you to find out where I live, the bloke who thought Edgar was nasty. Can you please tell me? Please?"_

Her eyes shift around guiltily. _"I don' remember, I don' remember. Don' know 'is name, do I, Edgar?"_

_"Oh, please, you have to help me! I might be in terrible danger from this man, and I have to know who he is so I can defend myself! You have to help me, Mona."_

Shrinking down into herself, Ferret Lady looks guilty and sad. _"I'm sorry. So sorry. I don' feel half 'shamed of myself. I went that day an' told 'im. I told 'im, even though you was so very nice and all, I told 'im. 'Cuz I was afraid, you see? Not for the money. Well, not jus' the money."_ She reaches out a grimy hand and clasps it over mine resting on the table. _"I'm sorry, a better person than me wouldna done it."_ She pats my hand, and lets it go.

I sigh. _"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I understand. Really, I do. But, you can still make it up to me by telling me his name!"_

Mona hesitates for a minute, then gets a gleam in her eye, and, reaching furtively up her sleeve, she coaxes Edgar out. The little ferret does look normal again; his eyes are clear and free from discharge, and he looks around like a ferret should, alert and curious. Shielding him from onlookers with her considerable bulk, Mona pets Edgar's head and leans over the little table toward me.

 _"That man said if I broke my promise 'n told anyone, he'd be killin' both me and Edgar, so I don' dare, you see? But Edgar can, 'cuz he didn't make no promises! So bend down close, here_!"

I look at the ferret, and then at her. Oh, for god's sake. Well, let's see what I can do with this. I bend down over the table, leaning one ear over the ferret's head. I feel him sniff curiously at my ear, tickling whiskers brushing against my earlobe. I give it a moment, then straighten up and sadly shake my head.

 _"What's the matter?_ " Mona asks. _"You heard that, dintja? I heard 'im say it, plain as day!"_

I shake my head again, _"Nope._ " But, I suddenly have an idea. _"Well, I mean, I heard him, of course I heard him! But, Mona, I don't speak Ferret like you do! You'll have to translate for him."_

_"Whatcher mean? Edgar speaks English, clear as you!"_

_"Nope. Ferret. I think you hear it in English because you speak Ferret so well, but not all of us are that lucky. Please, will you translate for me?"_ I give her my most winning smile, and Mona the Ferret Lady doesn't know what to do. She converses in whispers with Edgar for a moment, but then a social worker comes near our table and Mona quickly stuffs Edgar back up her sleeve. I don't think she's supposed to have her pet here, but I can see that the social worker is perfectly aware of Edgar; the young woman smiles indulgently at Mona and deliberately turns her head away.

Mona motions me to lean forward to talk more privately, and the rank smell of her is almost painful. I really don't want to be this close, but I really do want to find out what she knows! I hold my breath and wait.

 _"Now, I'm only tellin' you what Edgar said, right? Nothin' of my own, only wha' he said. The man's name is McCutcheon. He's the one paid me to find you out, and you gotta be careful 'cuz he's mad. Hateful, and mad. Edgar says, be careful, right? Look sharp, and be careful._ "

McCutcheon! CIA-man-turned-drug dealer, the angry little man all in black? Why would he want to pinpoint which flat was mine? It doesn't make sense! Unless...well, unless he wanted to plant surveillance cameras in it...

That fucking bastard. I am so going to scorch him.


	28. "Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind." ~ Rudyard Kipling

I am completely distracted on the ride back to Knightsbridge, and quite nearly miss my stop. The stairs up to the street are overrun with days-end travelers going down, everyone as intent on getting home as I am; it's a miracle I don't crash into anyone. When I emerge from the crowded underground station, I take a deep breath of relief and deliberately slow down, winding my way through the puddles on the pavement, stepping hard into the shallow pools of water to make little splashes as I make my way home.

I'm still mad as hell, but starting to doubt my first reaction. I mean, I don't have a shred of evidence that it was McCutcheon that bugged the flat, do I? Then again, it may well have been him. I need to talk to McCutcheon again, full stop. No big scorching confrontation, though. Just a nice, low-key chat. Sure, Mycroft asked me to avoid "questionable associates," but to hell with that. I can sit at home and go mad wondering what's going on, or I can go talk to people and find out for myself. I'd rather know.

Back at my flat–– MY flat, damn it!–– I toss together a quick tea and fire up my laptop so I can have another look at the latest postings in the "Outrageous Client" thread. It makes entertaining reading whilst I eat, although a couple of times I'm in danger of spraying my computer with sandwich particles. The bit that Gina contributes about "Mr. Berriman" and the Alsatian dog just about does me in...

The sky is still heavy with clouds, so it's already dusk by the time I'm standing in front of the wardrobe and contemplating my clothing choices. Verge is the obvious place to start looking for McCutcheon; even though it's not a Friday and he might be elsewhere, his contacts will be around. I'm sure that I can coax his whereabouts out of someone at the club.

Not this...not this...no, not that...wore that last time...boring...too short...Sigh. It's one of those cupboard-full-of-clothes-but-nothing-to-wear nights. Nothing seems right, and I realize that what's actually bugging me is wondering in the back of my mind if I should go out alone or not. There are a more than a couple of men I could whistle up for tonight, even on such short notice, but none of them is exactly what you would call quality. I could hire an escort –– and isn't that a laugh, an escort hiring an escort? –– or a bodyguard for the night...

Why am I afraid to go out alone? Is it because I think I need a bloke to protect me? Or because I don't want people to think I couldn't get a date? Both of those are pretty lame reasons, really. The bottom-line question is, do I really want a companion tonight? The honest answer is...not really. I would prefer to be on my own.

Well, that's settled. So, clothes––right for clubbing, but nothing too flashy or slaggy. I recite the urban girl's mantra: When in doubt, wear black. I pull on my body-con stretchy black dress, black tights, low boots, a jangle of silver belts, hair in a tidy bouffant, just a modest cat's-eye eyeliner. Very understated –– for me, anyway. It'll do.

I consider for a moment sneaking out the window to evade my security detail; I would just as soon Mycroft not know about my little expedition, and it might save a lot of explanations. But, I don't want to look like I have anything to hide, especially when I think about the slender thread of trust that I feel is starting to build between us. I reckon he'll forgive me going out to talk to McCutcheon, but sneaking away is a different matter––even though I'm not looking for trouble, I'm just going dancing...

I phone my favorite driver for a pick-up, and then make good on my earlier promise and phone Sara. It's what our usual conversations have become nowadays; she tells me about her day, and I don't tell her about mine. I have a pretty good idea how she would react to Sherlock breaking into my flat and harassing me–– _Normal people don't do that!_ –– so I leave that out and just talk about visiting with Edgar and Mad Ferret Lady.

By the time my driver pulls up, Sara and I are nattering about pretty much nothing at all, but just before we say our goodnights, she coyly mentions, _"By the way, I might have some big news in a few days...."_

_"Oh, now, that's not even fair, Sara! You can't do that to me! What's the news? C'mon!"_

She pauses and giggles, which is weird, because Sara doesn't giggle, she chuckles; but this is definitely a giggle. _"Richard has been seen in the jewelry store...perusing rings..."_

I pause, my hand on the car's door-handle, a stab of...something in my stomach. _"You think he's going to propose to you?"_

 _"Yep._ " Another giggle. This is so weird, it's not like her. I almost say something along those lines, but I realize that would be an echo of her to me a few days ago. I don't want her to feel like I did, criticized and unsupported. This is Sara, too, this giddy girlishness; it's just not a part of her I especially resonate with or even like.

 _"I'm so happy for you!"_ I tell her, and I try to mean it. _"You better keep me posted, right?"_

She promises to keep me updated on the latest, and as I climb into the car I tuck my phone into the top of my low boot, checking to see that my money and keys and other necessaries are already stowed in the other one.

I don't even bother to look and see if there is a black car following somewhere behind us as we head toward the motorway, but my driver notices. He glances at me in the rear mirror and asks, _"Do you know we're being followed? Is that okay?"_

I nod, looking out the window. _"Yeah. It's okay. They're just doing their job,"_ I say absently.

I see his silhouetted shoulders shrug, and that's it for any talking, which is just as well. I like him fine, but I don't hire him for conversation.

So, Sara and Richard getting married. My sister getting married. Having kids. All that.

It's not that I'm against settling down and all that, I mean, I can see where it would make some people happy, to have a family. I just don't have that urge, really. Not at the moment, anyway. Maybe I never will, I don't know. It's never been on my list of life accomplishments, but I know it always has been for Sara.

I feel a little glum about it, really. It's how you feel when a close friend tells you she's going to be moving away sometime soon. You start anticipating the loss, hurting even before the hurt can hit.

It doesn't take too long for us to reach Verge. I pay my driver and send him on his way, buy my ticket and go through the security check still completely preoccupied. Damn, Sara's announcement has really thrown me; who would've thought? I stretch up on my toes and give myself a good shake. _Time to concentrate, Angelica! Focus on what's in front of you._

Even though it's still pretty early, and not a weekend night, the club is by no means deserted. I look longingly at the bar, but decide to forego any alcohol tonight. I'm determined to keep my wits about me this time. The music booms and throbs through me, tugging at my belly and making my hips sway as I walk. It makes me smile when I realize it; I really do love dancing, I should come out more often again. There was a time when I was out nearly every night, dancing and partying. Of course, that was when I should have been home studying, but it was still a lot of fun.

It's funny, but when I started escort work, I stopped clubbing quite as much, and then gradually stopped altogether. I guess when you go out on the town for your job, there's less incentive to do it as recreation.

Just like last time, I am immediately approached by a succession of young men offering for sale whatever I'm looking to buy. Now, though, I understand why Verge is such a free-for-all for recreational chemicals; this place is Doreshchenko's outlet shop...and it occurs to me that the hefty admissions charge at the door would make a great way to launder the drugs money. No wonder Cobb wanted a piece of it.

I skirt around the edge of the dance floor and make my way upstairs to where Evan McCutcheon was holding court when I first met him. His place on the sofa is vacant, but there are still two very large and business-like security guard types at their posts, exactly as there were before. I go up to one of them with a friendly smile.

_"Hullo, gorgeous! Listen, you wouldn't happen to know where Evan is tonight, would you? I'd love to talk to him."_

The bloke might as well be carved from mahogany; his dark face remains totally impassive, and he doesn't give me so much as a flick of an eyelid. I can't even tell if he's breathing...

As I sigh and turn away, a skinny young man in an immaculate light grey suit comes up to me, showing his teeth in a tight smile. _"Can I help you, miss?_ " he inquires. He has a heavy Russian accent, and an air of suspicion.

 _"My name is Angel, and I'm looking for Evan,"_ I tell him. _"Is he here tonight?"_

I'm weighed and measured in a brief glance from the bloke's long-lashed dark eyes, and the frown he makes forms a single deep crease between his brows. _"Wait here,"_ he orders, taking out his mobile and thumbing a text.

A reply isn't long in coming, and the skinny suit glances down at it, and up at me in some surprise. Suddenly quite deferential, he bows to me slightly _."Please, won't you be following me? This way."_

He leads me through a side corridor and down and around darkened halls. The music slowly fades as we go further into the belly of the old building, but it never completely vanishes; there is the constant suggestion of thrumming music and high conversation and laughter hanging in the air.

At the end of the dim hallway is a half-opened door, spilling a puddle of light onto the industrial grey carpeting of the hall, and my guide stops and bows to me again, gesturing toward it. I give him a murmur of thanks, and stroll through the open door, giving a sharp rap with my knuckles on the wooden frame as I pass through.

McCutcheon and a young bloke in a suit are sitting on an overstuffed black leather sofa that dominates the small room. Each of them is gripping a games controller, intent on the wide-screen in front of them. The volume is turned up so loud that the imitation gunfire and explosions rattle my eardrums, making me wince. I stand uncertainly just inside the doorway, waiting.

Neither of them seems to notice me, and after a few moments I choose a chair by the doorway and sit down, taking in McCutcheon's office. If it is an office. I suppose it's an office, but it's not your usual sort. There's no power-center desk, for one thing; the room is focussed around the leather sofa and wide screen. There's a coffee table in front of the sofa, an end-table or two, some armchairs like the one I'm sitting in, and the whole of it done up in metal and glass and tones of black and grey, including the walls. It feels like a posh but nondescript little living room––in a spaceship.

I sigh, and lean back, waiting. They're playing one of those realistic combat games, and the Ooof! and Aaargh! that the soldiers make as they die would be humorous if it weren't so irritating. Finally, they finish the round or whatever you call it, and McCutcheon leans back, laughing softly, and claps the other man on the shoulder.

 _"Good one, Sergei! You completely kicked my ass, you son of a bitch!"_ His strange accent always jars me––fake American, or fake Scots, or both.

 _"Pure luck, sir."_ Sergei puts the games controller down on the coffee table and stands up, glancing meaningfully over at me. _"Should I stay, or wait outside, sir?"_

 _"Nah, neither one."_ McCutcheon tosses his controller onto the thick glass top of the coffee table with a clatter. _"Why don't you go out on the floor and see if you can pull yourself a bird, or whatever it is that you people call getting a piece of ass, eh? You work in a goddamn nightclub, go have some fun!"_

Sergei nods and leaves without another word, although he pauses as he goes out to point at the door with a questioning look. McCutcheon answers the unasked question, " _Why don't you leave it open, okay? I want our Angel here to feel comfortable."_ He turns his pale, doughy face toward me, acknowledging my presence for the first time.

 _"I've been expecting you, Angel. You sure didn't waste any time, did you?"_ He cocks his head with a smile that doesn't reach his mocking eyes. _"I mean, you find my little cameras and BOOM! Here you are._ " He chuckles at my look of shock, then grins widely in real glee as my cheeks flush with anger. _"Well, I should say that Mycroft's baby brother found them, right? His face was the last image...."_

That son of a bitch. I can't believe he's sitting there, gloating like this. " _Why?!"_ I grit out through clenched teeth.

McCutcheon folds his hands across his paunch with a genuinely pensive look. _"Why, indeed. That's a good question, you know? I've spent a lot of nights asking myself that. I'm sure you have, too, haven't you?"_ He looks and sounds serious, and I can't tell if he's fucking with me, or if he's high, or simply mad. _"You know what my conclusion has been, after all these years of asking Why?"_ McCutcheon continues thoughtfully. _"I've had to conclude, Why not? I mean, why not? Shit happens, and it might as well be you as me, or them, right? Shit happens."_

I decide that he's probably high; I've been on both sides of conversations like this, and it is a total waste of time. _"Why did you bug my flat, Evan?"_ I growl. I'm just going to keep at him until he gives me something resembling a rational answer.

McCutcheon gives me a nasty smile. _"Because TV is fucking boring, that's why. I was hoping for some real entertainment."_

 _"Really._ " I revise my estimate. He's not high. Possibly mad, though, and definitely trying to take the piss out of me.

_"Really. But you and Mycroft were kind of disappointing. The only hot action I got to see was in the chair––that was fucking amazing, by the way––but the camera was aimed at the bed and not the goddamned post, so I missed everything else. Too bad. At least the audio was good, though. That was nice. You're quite a screamer."_

I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction again _. "Why did you bug my flat, Evan?"_

_"I loved the little chat you had afterwards, too. Very cozy. Gave me the warm fuzzies."_

_"Why did you bug my flat, Evan?"_ I refuse to give up.

McCutcheon sighs, runs his hand over his shaved scalp. _"You're starting to irritate me, Angel. You don't want to be doing that."_

_"You're beyond irritating me, Evan. I want to know why you bugged my flat."_

His demeanor is still unruffled, although his face isn't relaxed any longer; it's a tightly composed mask. I am having to work like hell to retain my own composure, but I'm doing my best to match him cool for cool. We stare at each other for a moment. _"You know,_ " he tells me, _"I actually like you. I really do, believe it or not. And I'm about to do you one hell of a favor."_ He picks up a computer mouse from the end table at his elbow and, using the top of his thigh as a mousepad, calls up his computer desktop on the wide screen and begins clicking through the files. _"You'll thank me later."_

Thank him later? That sounds eerily familiar. _"Why did you bug my flat, Evan?"_

He stops and closes his eyes, sighing with exaggerated patience, _"Because people talk after they fuck, Angel. They talk about lots of things. And you were going to be steering the conversations toward some important topics for me before we went to the next phase. But thanks to Sherlock, we can't do that now, can we? He's probably already told Mycroft about the surveillance. So we have to go to the next phase prematurely."_

_"What the hell do you mean, WE? I would never have agreed to any of that!"_

_"Oh,"_ he says absently, " _Yes, you would have. You will. Hang on, I'll find it in a minute."_ He is flicking through page after page of files on the screen, then says triumphantly, " _Hah! Got it."_ He turns toward me. _"Now, I want you to pay close attention, especially at the very beginning, because you might miss the most important bit. In fact,_ " he pats the leather cushion beside him, _"In fact, I think you should sit here. It's a better viewing angle, less distortion."_ He sees my hesitation and adds, _"Don't worry, I don't bite! I won't touch you at all; I don't even like girls._ " I raise an eyebrow at him, and McCutcheon chuckles and adds, " _Nor boys."_

He's right about the viewing angle, so I reluctantly join him on the sofa. _"What, then? Martians? Ponies?"_

He turns back toward the screen and rapidly clicks the mouse, opening a video viewer program. _"None of the above, actually. I've been impotent for quite a few years. Medical complications._ " He sounds very offhand about it, and I really don't care, so I don't ask any further.

I glance over at the open door, and note that it is still seems unguarded as well. If things get weird, I can simply walk away; McCutcheon is no match for me physically, and he doesn't seem to have a weapon of any kind. So, then, why do I feel dread blooming in my stomach?

 _"Ready?_ " McCutcheon's watery blue eyes actually look alive right now, which increases my dread. Anything that a man like this gets happy about can't be a good thing––but I want to see it. I want to know.

He can see the conflict in my face, and the smile spreads from his eyes to light up his entire face with an unholy grin. _"Ready?"_ he asks again. I nod mutely, and clench my hands into fists.

The first shot that loads up is a fuzzy, lone figure of a dark-haired, bearded man sitting in a straight-backed chair with a small table beside. There is nothing else, just a man in a chair, and the little table. Everything is shadows of grainy grey, and I realize that the recording is in very low-resolution black-and-white. The picture is shifting and rolling, like it's taken with a hand-held camera.

The picture zooms out of focus and back in again, and I can suddenly see clearly that the seated man is blindfolded, with his hands and feet manacled to the legs of the chair. With a twisting churn in my stomach, I glance over at McCutcheon to tell him to turn it off. I don't want to see this kind of shit. I don't want this in my brain.

 _"You're gonna miss it!"_ he says excitedly, and gestures at the screen. I look again, and the camera has panned over to show a door opening and a figure in a dark waistcoat and rolled-up shirtsleeves entering the room. My mouth goes dry.

It is unmistakably Mycroft who enters and carefully locks the door behind him, although from the level of his hairline and the contours of his face, it has to be at least a decade ago, probably more. He glances in the direction of the person holding the camera––McCutcheon, I guess––and gives a slight nod, then gazes intently at the seated man. Mycroft's expression is absolutely calm and remote, except for the slight telltale tightening of distaste around the corners of his mouth.

I know that look. It's the same one I saw when he pinned me in the lift. Seeing it gives me a shudder, and I feel sick. McCutcheon pauses the video with young Mycroft centered in the frame. He's watching my reaction closely, eyes glittering.

 _"Ready to watch the show?_ " he asks, and positions the cursor over the 'play' button. _"It's fucking amazing."_

 _"No,"_ I tell him, flatly. _"NO. That's enough. I can guess the rest, I don't need to see it. Play it and I'm out of here, full stop."_

McCutcheon sighs and looks disappointed. " _You'll be missing the world's only identifiable footage of a master at work, you know. He was the best, the absolute best, but so goddamn camera-shy! I got him on this one, though; the bastard never suspected that I'd actually use something as cliché as a watch-cam."_ Chuckling, McCutcheon waggles his eyebrows roguishly at his own cleverness. _"Goddamn genius at interrogation. You know what his nickname was in the Coalition? 'Ice Man.' He could get information out of anybody, didn't matter who."_ McCutcheon gestures at the screen where Mycroft is frozen in time, glaring at the captive in the chair. _"One of theirs, one of ours, men, women, young, old, didn't matter. Ice Man never hesitated. You could count on him not to mind racking up the body count. He didn't give a shit."_

I have no doubt that McCutcheon is exaggerating things, none at all. Still, I can't tear my eyes away from the figure on the screen. _"Okay, so Mycroft used to do interrogations._ " I shrug. _"You're obviously trying to make him out to be some kind of inhuman monster––why should I believe what you say? Do you expect me to hate him now?"_

 _"No,"_ McCutcheon replies evenly, " _Not just yet._ " He clicks back through the files on the screen, saying a soft " _Ah!_ " when he finds the one he wants, and hits play without further comment.

Better quality than the first one, but still black-and-white and grainy low-res. It's a well-appointed, very posh office of some sort, one I've never seen before, and the point of view is from up high, looking down at a tilted angle. For all that, I can see fairly well. Two men, both seated. I don't know the elderly gent sitting behind the desk, but the other one is definitely Mycroft, sitting at his ease, legs casually crossed. It looks recent; in fact, I know the suit he's wearing, the dark pinstripe. I keep watching because, frankly, I'm intensely curious. If McCutcheon thinks he can get me to hate Mycroft with recordings of shady government deals, he's completely mistaken; but then, the man doesn't know me at all.

 _"What do you think? Should we intervene or not?"_ The older gent has his hands splayed flat atop some papers spread on the desk before him, and his lined face is creased with deep concern.

 _"Oh, best to hold off, in my opinion,"_ Mycroft offers. _"Everything our agents have––"_

McCutcheon softly curses and pauses the recording. _"Damn it, wrong place. That shit is boring. Hang on._ " He fast-forwards it nearly to the end.

Neither man on the screen has moved much, but a curvy brunette in a dark skirt-suit has suddenly appeared in this later frame, standing with her hands clasped behind as if at attention; I know her.

 _"Sir,"_ Anthea says, addressing Mycroft, _"Are you sure about that? Without our protection––"_

Mycroft doesn't have to say a word to stop her in mid-sentence; he just lifts an eyebrow slightly. Too late, though. The gent across the desk leans forward, asking _"Well? What happens then?"_

With a glance at Mycroft, Anthea clears her throat softly and continues. _"Well, sir, without our protection, it's certain that Dijkstra will be terminated by one faction or another, and there will be consequences. There were some...safeguards he put into place, information that would be released to certain people if anything happened to him..."_

 _"A deadman switch, of a sort,"_ Mycroft observes. _"Quite clever, and it's kept him alive this long, but I think the time has come where we can no longer delay the inevitable. In any case, the balance of probability is for the outcome to fall in our favor."_

 _"I see."_ The grey head nods in agreement. _"Well, then you should proceed as you think best."_ The old man frowns down at the papers, shuffling through them. _"There was another issue... Ah, what about this young woman?"_ He pulls out a large photograph and lays it on top of the pile, I can see it, it looks like... Oh, my god. I stop breathing.

 _"One of Dijkstra's associates,_ " Mycroft explains, his face completely neutral.

_"And she is...?"_

_"Currently of some use."_

_"Enough to justify Grade Four active surveillance? And a Level One access as well?"_

_"In my opinion, yes."_ Mycroft offhandedly flicks an invisible speck of lint from his knee.

_"I'm disturbed that her involvement in this matter seems considerable, Mycroft, but we have no safeguards for her discretion."_

_"She has a family attachment that would suffice, I believe."_ Oh, god.

 _"Hmm."_ The older man leans back in his high-backed leather desk chair. _"Do you remember the Jenkins affair, Mycroft?_ " he drawls.

Mycroft draws a deep breath. " _Vividly,"_ he says with distaste. He shifts slightly in his chair, looking thoughtful. " _If you like, we could simply terminate when the operation is concluded. A waste, to be sure, but it would prevent future problems, and certainly avoid a Jenkins-type scenario."_

Looking slightly appalled, the grey head backpedals, _"That's a bit extreme, don't you think?"_

Mycroft raises his eyebrows eloquently. _"What is extreme in one circumstance, is completely reasonable in another. Context is everything."_

 _"Absolutely, but I hardly think an automatic termination is justified in this case. However..."_ He picks up my photo again, regarding it closely. _"That certainly would be an option, if it proves necessary._ " He sighs, filing my photo into an envelope. _"You may act at your discretion, but bear in mind that any repercussions are on you alone."_

Mycroft's expression doesn't change at all, but he parks his tongue briefly between his molars. _"Of course."_

There is a click from the mouse in McCutcheon's hand, and the recording pauses. _"You want to see that again?_ " he asks dryly.

I shake my head and stare wordlessly at the figures on the frozen screen, then gradually slump forward like a rag-doll, the bitter taste of betrayal rising like bile in my throat as I press my forehead against my knees.

Terminate. Mycroft was offering to murder me.

And he let Steen be murdered. Deliberately. He let them have Steen. No wonder he figured out so easily who was responsible for Steen's death––he already knew who the likely suspects were.

It hurts, it hurts, but what hurts even more is the confirmation of my deep-down worst fear. I was afraid he wasn't for real, that it was all a sham. And I was right. Who was I kidding, believing that someone like me could really matter to someone like Mycroft?

'Broken-hearted' is such an odd phrase. Hearts can't break, they're made of muscle, sinew; I dissected a cow's heart once in a biology class. Impossible to see how that lump of thick muscle could be described as breaking, but there's no other word for the hollow crushing in the centre of my chest. Broken. I can't think, I can't run, all I can do is breathe, softly chanting, "Ow...ow...ow...."

McCutcheon reaches out and pats my shoulder gently. I want to flinch away from his hand, but I can't move. _"It's hard, I know,"_ he says, and god help me, the compassion in his voice sounds genuine. _"But better now than later, right?"_

Suddenly I feel hot tears pricking behind my eyes, a gathering flood that I willfully blink back. I'm not going to snivel like an infant, especially in front of this creep. I pull myself bolt upright again, sniffling and carefully wiping a finger under each eye to get rid of the moisture without smearing too much eyeliner.

 _"So."_ My voice quavers a little, and I ruthlessly steady it. _"So, is this supposed to be your fucking good deed for the day, Evan? Your charity work?"_ I ask bitterly.

He shakes his head with a mirthless chuckle. _"Charity begins at home, in my book. You could call this enlightened self-interest, though."_

_"Enlightened? What's enlightened about it?"_

_"Like I said, better now than later."_ He cocks his head and adds, _"I bet you feel pretty stupid right now, don't you? He's played you right from the beginning, you know. In everything. It's all been his game, and there wasn't any reason for him to play it except for his own fun. It was real for you, and he knew it. And he didn't care."_ McCutcheon turns to look at the screen _. "Don't you want to get even, Angel? Don't you want some revenge?"_ He looks back at me, and his expression is compassionate and sincere, and just a little outraged. " _Don't you think you deserve it?"_

And wouldn't that just be so damned useful to you. I don't doubt that he has set this up for me to become a weeping harpy, hell-bent on making Mycroft pay...and doing loads of favors for Mr. Evan McCutcheon along the way, of course. Just incidentally.

My stomach explodes with anger, red-hot rage boiling up and flushing my face again. _Damn you! Damn you both!_ I have had it with being anyone's pawn, in any game whatsoever. I'm done. No more. I am so bloody done.

McCutcheon must see my anger rising, because he gives me an encouraging smile and croons, " _You have a right to be angry, Angel. I can help you."_

Oh, I'll bet you'll help me, you bastard! I almost tell him off, but I have a change of mind at the last second. I'll be able to learn more if I let him think he's winning me over than if I deal out to him what I'm actually thinking. I want out of this, and away from every one of these arseholes––but first I want to know what is really going on.

 _"I...I don't know what to think, Evan. I'm so angry and confused!"_ I let him see my hurt, and he happily eats it up with an expression of the deepest sympathy. _"How can you help me?"_

 _"Lots of ways, lots,"_ he says soothingly. _"But you have to calm down and mellow out first, okay? And I need something for pain as much as you do. My back is killing me."_ McCutcheon smiles, and reaches into the drawer of the steel and glass end table beside him, drawing out a blown-glass pipe of the most exquisite blue. _"Come over to the Dark Side, little Angel––we have the best goodies!"_ He laughs softly at his own cleverness, and tamps down the herb packed in the bowl before lighting it up. He draws in a deep hit and then offers it over to me, slowly releasing a cloud of acrid smoke.

I reflexively take the bowl, the same reflex making me glance over at the open door. McCutcheon laughs out loud, and shakes his head. _"Angel, the only cops in this place are on our payroll. You can relax_." He waves a hand at the pipe in my fingers. _"That's my own blend, you'll notice just a little heaviness in the aftertaste; I have it blended with a pinch of opium, for pain relief."_

I look at the pipe, honestly admiring the artistry of the smooth cobalt glass. I remember the last time I tripped on something that McCutcheon gave me; it turned out to be more than I bargained for. _"Oh, so this is medicinal, then?_ " I ask archly.

 _"Fuck, yeah, it's medicinal."_ His eyes are already a little heavier-lidded, I think, his face more relaxed. _"My insides are so completely fucked up that the only thing keeping me alive is massive doses of anti-inflammatories, which fuck you up in other ways, you know?"_ He looks at the wide-screen, where the tableau of Mycroft, Anthea, and the old gent is still paused in mid-meeting. _"Basically, I'm dying. Well, we're all dying, aren't we? But I'm dying faster than I should be, thank you so much, Uncle-fucking-Sam."_

I decide to go along with smoking up, or at least pretending to, since that seems to be McCutcheon's way of bonding. I light up and take the smallest lungful that I can manage to, hoping that I'll look more inept than reluctant, handing the bowl and lighter back with a question. _"So, what happened? Why are you ill?"_

 _"It's a long, boring story, but it comes down to getting my ass sacrificed for the good of a mission. I survived it, but I got exposed to some nasty shit that gave me cancer and a bunch of other problems––and guess what? My fucking government won't even foot the bill for decent treatment; I get the same bullshit that any other vet gets. Fucking VA hospitals and fucking VA incompetence."_ He re-lights the bowl and takes another long, deep draw. _"Over here, I'm closer to the clinics that do things that actually help, but they are fucking expensive, you know? There's a private hospital in Zurich that actually might have a cure for the type of cancer that's killing me, but it's gonna cost over twenty grand up-front to even check in."_ He shakes his head and hands me back the smoldering pipe.

I can feel the effects even from that small hit I took, so I make sure the next one is barely anything––but I can still feel the corners of my mouth tugging up for no reason at all, and behind that a lovely floating feeling that must be the opium... No more! I pass it back quickly to McCutcheon. " _So, is that why you work for the Pigman?"_

McCutcheon laughs so hard his belly shakes under the black t-shirt stretched over it, and he nearly drops the pipe. _"Work for Sacha? I don't work for that pig-fucking Russian! He works for me!_ " I wonder what Doreshchenko would say to that? McCutcheon draws on the pipe again, but doesn't pass it back to me; I guess my lack of enthusiasm was apparent. _"I run the operations, Sacha provides the manpower and casts a big enough shadow for me to hide in, but the kind of piddly-assed operation that I've been able to scrape together with him just isn't going to cut it. I need some serious money, and I need it while I'm still breathing, so that's why I've been dicking around trying to pull together a deal for both parts of that goddamned Torch."_

He takes one last hard hit on the pipe, and grinds around with his little finger in the ashes in the bowl, finally tapping it out carelessly onto the carpet. _"You would not believe what a cluster-fuck that's been. But I'm almost there, now that I know exactly where the code book is and how to get to it."_ Laying the pipe and lighter onto the coffee table beside the games controllers, McCutcheon settles back with a contented sigh. _"I'm going to be so goddamn happy to hand off the formulas and the decoding keys to my buyers, afterwards I am going to have a fucking one-man party and not regain consciousness for a week."_

I giggle at the thought of being passed out for a week. He's so funny! " _So, you're not going to keep it? The Torch thingee?"_

 _"Fuck yeah, I'm giving Sacha a copy of the code book to go with his copy of the coded lab notes. That was the deal, and I've got no reason to screw him over. But the originals, those are going to my buyers, for lots and lots of money, more than Sacha will be making selling brain-candy out of this crap-heap here."_ He gestures vaguely around us. " _You know, that lab spent a decade cooking up some very interesting shit, some real game-changers._ " A grin splits his face, and McCutcheon starts to chuckle. _"Me, I'm such a son of a bitch that I'm hoping some of that shit actually gets deployed. I want to watch the bastards panic!"_

Suddenly I remember hearing what was in those lab notes. " _Like, chemical terrorism? You're talking about chemical weapons, aren't you?"_ He nods. _"They could kill people!"_

McCutcheon shrugs. _"Yeah. Maybe. I don't care what they do with it, to be perfectly honest. Even with good treatment, I probably won't last another five years, so whatever my little camel-jockeys decide to do with the shit that they cook up is pretty much not my problem. I give no fucks at all,"_ he finishes serenely.

Dreaminess gone, I stare at him in horror. _"You're completely mental. You can't just sell weapons like that to terrorists, knowing that they'll turn them against your own people!"_

McCutcheon's face is supremely indifferent. _"My own people? I have no people. Let me tell you a story, little Angel: Once upon a time I was willing to die for the fucking freedom of the fucking free world. You know what? I found out it's nothing but a goddamn lie. Once they used me up, once I was no longer an asset––pffft,"_ he shrugs carelessly. _"Done. Expendable. There is no happily ever after."_

He waves at the wide-screen with the three figures emblazoned on it. _"Do you honestly think that any one of those motherfuckers cares if you live or die? Of course they don't! Why would they, for fuck's sake? There's no advantage in caring. They're the ones who have the power, you are one of the ones who don't. It's very simple."_

He's utterly convincing, but it just feels fundamentally wrong––and my automatic defense against that cognitive dissonance is to get preoccupied with details. " _So how did you get that footage anyway?_ " I wonder aloud. " _That's obviously a high-level government office, and I bet they've got ways of finding cameras and stuff."_

 _"Good girl! You might have a brain behind those pretty eyes after all."_ I restrain the urge to slap the patronizing look off McCutcheon's face. " _You're right, they monitor the hell out of all energy signatures in that building. But you know what? Those cheap-ass cameras I get from China don't register on their high-tech sophisticated equipment––because they don't believe that anybody would actually use that low-grade crap. Except that I love that low-grade crap. I'm not proud, I'll use anything."_

 _"And how––"_ McCutcheon clicks away the video program, and I get distracted by the flashes on the screen, forgetting what I was going to say. _"How..."_

_"––how did I get the camera in there to begin with? Cleaning crew, same as your apartment. Nobody pays much attention to the cleaners, do they?"_

_"And...and––"_

_"––why did I bug that office?"_ McCutcheon chuckles again. _"It wasn't to get footage of Mycroft talking about you; that was just a lucky byproduct. My main objective––let's just say I was doing a favor for a friend, right? Politics is like that, Angel, people doing each other favors, calling in favors, shitting on the guy who won't return favors, stuff like that. What I do is politics, unofficial politics."_

I close my eyes for a moment, resisting the urge to rub the dry irritation I suddenly feel in them. That would be the weed, I think; it's been a while, I probably have no tolerance for any side effects. I open my eyes with a sigh to find McCutcheon gazing at me thoughtfully.

_"That's how things get done, Angel. People doing each other favors. You help me, I'll help you."_

_"Like, help me how?"_

_"Well, you want to get Mycroft, don't you?"_

Not really, I think. I don't want revenge. I probably should, but I don't. At the moment, I just want to stay the hell away from him, but what I say is, _"Of course..."_

_"Well, then, I can help you, and you'll be helping me at the same time. See how nice that is?"_

_"Nice, yeah."_

_"What you're going to do is use your security clearance––"_

Huh? _"I don't have a security clearance, Evan. What the hell are you talking about?"_

 _"Yes, you do. It's on that recording, you have Level One access. That's not much, but it's enough._ " He looks at me closely, then starts to laugh. _"You didn't even know that? How could you not know? God, you're dumb."_

 _"Nobody told me."_ It shouldn't, but McCutcheon's casual derision makes me want to cry. _"Mycroft never told me."_

_"Well, you've been to the basement, right? Nobody gets into the basement who's not at least a Level One."_

_"Basement? What basement?"_

_"Jesus, girl, are you always this dense, or is it the pot? The. Basement. The one under the Diogenes Club."_

It dawns on me. _"Oh, Mycroft's office?"_

McCutcheon shrugs. _"I suppose he has an office down there, I've never been. It's just called The Basement, and it's wrapped up even tighter than MI6."_

 _"And you want me to get in there_?" I ask with alarm. _"Why? How?"_

 _"No! For crissakes, you stupid cunt, will you just listen?"_ I ball up my fists and clench my teeth. If he's been trying to woo my cooperation, he just lost it completely––but maybe the pot is making him stupid, too. He had a lot more than I did.

McCutcheon goes on. " _You visiting The Basement just proves that you've got Level One clearance. Among other things, that means that your fingerprints have been added into the system, and that gives you access to low-level security areas anywhere, in any building that's part of the Central Security grid. Get it?"_

 _"Okay, I got it."_ This is so bizarre, it's like finding out you have a secret superpower or something. _"Like, what sort of people have Level One access?"_

_"PA's, maintenance, catering, that sort of thing. Support staff. The fucking tea lady. What I need for you to do is really, really simple. I need you to get inside a particular building, access an electrical junction box, and cut a few wires. That's it. I don't think even you can fuck that up."_

I ignore the dig. _"What would I be cutting wires for? What are you trying to do?"_

_"Oh, my fucking god. Will you just stop and think for a minute instead of flapping your mouth? Why do you think I would need to be able to get inside a secure building? What the fuck did I tell you just a few minutes ago that I really wanted?"_

_"The book containing decoding keys for the Torch, that now you know exactly where it is."_ My brain feels thick as treacle, and it takes a while for the thoughts to move through it. _"Oh! The authorities must have gotten the code book from Cobb. And now they're holding it somewhere..."_

 _"A government research lab not very far away from where we're sitting, actually. Just a short cab-ride away."_ McCutcheon smiles happily. _"I know people who are willing to sell information, just not willing to risk their necks doing more than that. So I need you to make it possible for our guys to go in, grab what we need, and get out again. Just a few wires, snip, snip, snip."_

_"Disabling the security system?"_

_"Something like that."_

_"But, they'll know it was me. How am I supposed to get out again? And what happens after that?"_

_"My guys will scoop you up and take you with, and after that...well, I think you could use a change of career, don't you?"_

Like I trust this arsehole! _"No, not really. I LIKE working for the Agency, you know. I've got no complaints."_

McCutcheon slouches further down and puts his hands behind his head. " _You like supplying blackmail material for a living, then?"_

My slow, thick brain sifts through that. _"I don't supply anything to anybody. Sherlock said the same thing, and I'm totally confused. How is that supposed to work? How can I be supplying blackmail material without knowing it? Nobody has approached me about that at all, and I've been with the Agency for over a year. Steen never said anything about it, and he was with them even longer..._ " Of course, he didn't mention a lot of things. Oh, Steen!

 _"How the hell should I know how it works?"_ McCutcheon shakes his head. _"All I know is, the Agency is owned by Magnussen, and you do not fuck with Magnussen, period, or he will destroy you. I make it a point to stay the hell away from that motherfucker, he's out of my league. But I'm telling you, it can't be a coincidence that the man deals in high-level blackmail, AND he owns a string of whores––and not just on these blessed shores, either."_

 _"He doesn't own us,"_ I snap irritably. _"Nobody owns us."_

McCutcheon just gives me a nasty smile. _"Sure."_

I started out disliking this man; now I really hate him _. "Whatever. So you think I need a career-change? Got something in mind?"_

 _"Sacha already offered for you to work for him, and he wasn't joking. You'd have to wrap your hands around his dick pretty frequently, so that's a downside, but he's your best bet if you wanna stay in London._ " McCutcheon stretches his arms out along the sofa in the way that a man does when he's claiming space. " _On the other hand, if you want to get the hell out of here and live someplace that doesn't suck...Well, once I'm finished with the treatments in Zurich, I'm retiring to my villa in Greece. That's where I want to die. You ever been to the Mediterranean, Angel? It's fucking beautiful. The most fucking beautiful place on Earth, and I'll need a new PA because Sergei won't leave London. Why don't you think about it?"_

I don't want to think about it, because I can't imagine anything I'd rather do less! No, thankyouverymuch. But I give him a charming smile instead. _"Why, thank you, Evan."_

 _"We can discuss the specifics tomorrow,"_ McCutcheon says, picking up his phone from the end table. _"I'll have my driver Lena come and pick you up; she's very, very experienced, and won't have any problem losing your security detail. Shit, my blind granny wouldn't have any problem losing your detail. I don't know where Mycroft digs up these clowns."_ He enters a text as he speaks, ignoring my stuttering protest. _"I want to get this thing over with tonight while Mycroft is still out of town, so let's meet at one of Sacha's safe-houses. Leo is in charge and he'll brief you on––."_

_"What? Wait! Bloody hell, Evan, I haven't agreed to anything! I thought we were still negotiating!"_

He stops and looks at me, a reptilian glitter in his eyes. _"Negotiating? What the fuck would we be negotiating?"_

_"Whether or not I'm going to waltz into that building and disable the security for you!"_

_"Nope, that's a done deal, I'm afraid. Whether or not you actually do it, you'll have done it. I set that up days ago. The only thing for you to decide is if you want to do it for real and gain my eternal gratitude––as well as ruining Mycroft––or just get blamed for it and have Mycroft kill you for ruining him._ "

He holds up his phone with the text message entered, finger on the 'send' button. " _Think fast, Angel."_


	29. "We are never deceived; we deceive ourselves."  ~ Goethe

I look from the phone in McCutcheon's hand to the hard, cold eyes in his pallid face. He's finally dropped all pretence of trying to win me over; what's left is brute force, and the hatred that drives it. Well, if we're going to be dropping pretences, then let's do it!

 _"Fuck you!"_ I snarl, and I spit it out a few times more, because if I'm going to lose my cool, I'm going to let it go all the way. _"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! Why should I believe that you can frame me if I don't cooperate? How the hell are you going to convince Mycroft that I helped you? That's bollocks!"_

McCutcheon shakes his head with smirk, infuriatingly amused by my outburst. _"I'm not bluffing. I have a full set of your fingerprints mocked up, and a body-double with a fake ID card ready to use them, wearing clothes that you were too stupid to notice missing from your closet, and real strands of your hair to leave around for Mycroft to find. The face isn't an exact match, but we know where the security cameras are, and it's not too difficult to avoid a full face-shot. And, the double will be carrying your phone, so the tracker will record that you were there." McCutcheon smiles smugly. "It's airtight. You saw the video; no matter what, the blame for you will fall squarely on Mycroft's shoulders. The fact that terrorists are going to have control of the Torch materials will be one-hundred percent his fault, and everyone is going to know it."_

_"Then why not just dispose of me and use your double?"_

_"It's getting more and more tempting, believe me."_ McCutcheon's lip curls minutely. _"But. The whole thing will be more foolproof if it actually IS you, right? No way he can weasel out of it then. So make no mistake, here. If you won't cooperate, I will just hold you here until the job is done, and then let you go for Mycroft to dispose of."_

 _"I'll tell him the truth! He'll listen to me!"_ Even as I'm saying it, I'm feeling ridiculous.

McCutcheon laughs so hard his belly shakes. _"Oh, bullshit. You know that's bullshit. You saw the recording, he's looking for an excuse to end you. You're too close, you know too much. You'll be just another tragic prostitute who got what she had coming to her. Happens all the time."_

Screwing my eyes shut, I throw my head back against the soft leather sofa behind me. Son of a bitch. I don't know what to do. My brain is stuffed with cotton-wool, I can't think clearly at all, and I don't know what to do. I could refuse to cooperate, then afterward go to the police, to Lestrade...but he would probably turn me over to Mycroft, just like before...

McCutcheon shifts his bulk around on the sofa beside me, saying softly, _"It's getting late. You need to decide, and right now. You can either cooperate or die, there's no other way."_

 _There's always a way out. You just have to be smart enough to see it, and have the guts to try._  I give McCutcheon a calculating look, but he seems to read my mind. _"Think again, Angel. I may look like a complete wreck, but I have training you can't even begin to imagine. Do you think I'd have sent my bodyguard away if I were the least bit worried?"_

I think about the open door, hardly two meters away. I could make a run for it, and he wouldn't be able to stop me, but this club is crawling with McCutcheon's security. I remember the huge security guards, faces like carved wood. I don't think I could make it past them.

The best thing I can do at the moment is maximise my options. I let my shoulders slump just a little, letting out a pitiful sigh. _"I don't really have a choice, do I?_ " I turn toward him with what I hope is a resigned look. _"I'm in. Please promise that you won't let him get me?"_

 _"Don't worry, Angel, I'll take care of you._ " The sticky smile he gives me makes my skin crawl.

McCutcheon's staff must have been ready and waiting for his text, because things happen very, very fast after that. His driver arrives just minutes after he sends for her, entering the room with a sharp rap in the open door. She is a middle-aged, no-nonsense, compact Asian woman in a dark, fitted menswear suit, and from the way she looks me over, I can tell that she already knows who I am; it's that look that you have when finally putting a face to a name.

McCutcheon introduces us, then tells me, _"Lena is going to take you to meet with Leo at one of Sacha's safe-houses. You will do what she tells you, understand? She's in charge of you. At the safe-house, Leo will give you your instructions, and you will follow them to the letter. What we need you to do is very simple, very easy, you'll be in and out of there in less than five minutes, and then Lena will take you back to the safe-house. Right?"_ I nod at him, not trusting my voice. _"And you understand that if you try to double-cross me, I won't wait for Mycroft to get you, I will kill you myself in the slowest, most painful ways possible, right? I mean, you'll be begging to die by the time I'm through with you. Do you understand me, Angel?_ " He says all this in the calmest, most reasonable voice, which makes it all the more horrible. He seems to be waiting for a response, so I just look frightened and nod again. _There's always a way out._

 _"Now, Angel, give me your phone."_ McCutcheon holds out his hand to me with an expectant look, and I stare at him in total shock. My phone? No bloody way! _"Now, now,"_ he says soothingly, patronisingly, like he's talking to a small child. _"Now, now, you'll get it back soon, I promise. It just needs to be in a signal-damper case for a while, okay?"_ he coaxes.

Treacherous little turd. I sigh again, and reach down. Fishing my mobile out of the top of my low boot, I hand it to McCutcheon, who hands it to Lena, who wordlessly slips it into a thickly-padded black case and stows it away in her coat pocket.

 _"Good girl!"_ McCutcheon beams at me. _"Now, go have a ride with Lena, and do what she and Leo tell you to, okay? I'll see you tomorrow morning, we'll go someplace really nice for a champagne breakfast with Sacha."_

Like hell we will. I stand up, awkwardly tugging down my skirt, and not knowing what to say. _See you later? It's been lovely being manipulated and coerced by you? I hope you die really, really soon, you ugly bastard?_ I don't trust myself to say anything without screaming obscenities, so I just wave vaguely at him, and he twiddles his fingers at me in a small child's bye-bye.

At McCutcheon's gesture, Lena turns on her heel and strides off. She still hasn't said a single word, and doesn't even bother to see if I am following her. I'm tagging along behind regardless, watching her grey-streaked jet ponytail swing hypnotically back-and-forth above her collar as we pass through the narrow halls of the old building, deeper and down, until we reach a back door that opens out into a tiny, private carpark.

Lena opens the rear door of a nondescript silver saloon for me, and as I climb in, I reflexively check in my boot for my phone; of course it's not there, and the pang of anxiety that shoots through me brings my stomach up to my throat. I swallow it down, and concentrate on my breathing. _Goddamn it, Angelica, it's just a phone._ I resist the urge to keep checking in my boot; the sober part of my brain identifies that as an anxiety displacement activity, and notes that repetition will just make it worse. I allow myself to check the other boot to make sure that my money clip with my ID and flat key is still there. It is, but no phone. Of course. _Breathe._

Settling in and putting on her seat-belt, the older woman looks at me in the rearview mirror. _"Strap in. We will have to start out fast,"_ she tells me in English heavily seasoned with something like a Russian accent. She's probably Mongolian. " _Your job is to hang on and keep quiet. No noise, or I'll pull over and beat the shit out of you. Got that?"_

I nod, biting my lip. I guess she really doesn't like noise. I fasten myself in and settle back.

I'm braced and ready, but I still almost let out a shriek of surprise when we peel out with a squeal of tyres, the acceleration flattening me against the back of my seat. I've never gone that fast in the city, not ever, not even with my mad Canadian. There's no way to catch a glimpse of any cars following us, black or otherwise; all I can see is buildings and lights and streets flashing by in the dark as we weave through traffic.

Abruptly, Lena expertly skids the car into a dimly-lit side street, and I am hanging from my shoulder harness like a puppet from its strings. She brings it to a halt right at the kerb, kills the headlights, and waits. I groan out _"Bloody hell!_ " shifting around to rub my bruised shoulder, and she whips around to face me, hand raised in warning. Her broad, angular face is expressionless, but the gesture is unmistakable as her hand clenches into a fist. I bite my lip, looking down meekly, and she returns to watching the traffic go by.

After a few minutes, she flicks the headlights back on, and we slowly roll back out onto the main thoroughfare, merging and blending in with the steady flow of nighttime traffic.

My wretched sense of direction had me lost within a few minutes of leaving Verge, so when we pull up at a dilapidated door in a run-down row, I honestly can't say for sure where we are. I unbuckle and try to open my door, but the masterlock has been engaged, and I have to sit and wait for Lena. She gives a stiff little side-to-side stretch as she emerges, then lets me out as well, gesturing at me to follow.

The dilapidated door opens into an equally dilapidated flat. Although the place isn't completely nasty, the wallpaper is peeling down in sorry strips, and the air smells musty and damp. A tall, thin man is sitting hunched over a laptop computer at the kitchen table when Lena brings me in, and he looks up as we enter, sharp brown eyes below bristling grey eyebrows, a scant grey goatee sketched across his pale cheeks and chin. The light from a bare light-bulb dangling overhead shines on his bald scalp as he looks me over carefully, then glances meaningfully at Lena.

 _"She's stoned. Make coffee,_ " he tells her in Russian, then his deep voice shifts to cultured, posh English. _"Won't you please sit down, Miss Talbot?"_

By the time Lena has set a chipped mug of strong coffee at my elbow, Leo and I are on a first-name basis and we are sitting cozily in front of the laptop together, zooming around the floor-plans of the building they want me to enter.

The coffee helps to clear my head a little, and as I listen to Leo carefully explain step-by-step what they want me to do, I am feverishly trying to figure out how to get out of it. I don't want to do this! There's got to be a way out of this mess, I just have to find it.

Leo pauses to take a gulp of his coffee, and I realise that I've missed the past few moments of his lecture. _"I'm sorry, Leo, I got distracted. Could you just repeat that, please?"_ I ask with a sweet but vacant smile. Best that he thinks I'm a complete airhead, it could be useful.

He sighs patiently, and takes up the mouse again to use its cursor as a pointer. _"Right. When you reach the first sub-floor, designated LL1, you will exit the lift here..."_

My stomach implodes around the hot coffee. _"Lift? No. No lifts."_

Leo raises his bushy eyebrows in surprise. _"Why not? Just a short ride, in and out..._ "

I shake my head vigorously. _"I'm sorry, I have...issues with lifts. No lifts. It's hard for me to even go near them, but I think I can manage that if I have to..."_ I think. Probably. _"But riding in one? No way, absolutely not. I'll take the stairs, thank you."_

Leo looks at Lena, who shrugs. He looks back at me, peering closely. _"Is it really a problem? Like a phobia?_ " I nod my head emphatically. " _Okay,"_ Leo says, looking at the floor-plan again, " _Okay, no lifts. You'll take this route here, instead, right? You'll have to go near the lifts here––"_ he circles the pointer, _"––and here, but that's it. Can you do that?"_

I look at the floor-plan again. " _I think so. Yeah, I can manage that."_ I give him a tremulous I'm-trying-so-hard-to-be-brave smile.

 _"Good girl. Right, so the actual access panel that you need to get into is in this supply cupboard here..."_ the pointer circles again.

 _"Why is there a vulnerable access panel in a supply cupboard?"_ I wonder aloud, then realize that that doesn't sound very air-headed. _"But, wow, good thing it's there, huh? Really handy,"_ I add hastily, burying my face in my coffee mug.

Leo actually smiles indulgently; I think he's beginning to like me _. "Extremely handy. This building is a retro-fit, Angelica; it's electrical system is far from state-of-the-art, and there have been many compromises made over the years. We are going to exploit one such compromise. That's all you need to know."_

I give him my best wide-eyed innocent look, and deliberately engage all the subconscious flirtation signals I can muster without being too obvious. _"Okay, Leo. So, what do I do after I exit the stairs there? I want to get this right!"_

He painstakingly goes over the simple drill with me, showing me the floor plans on the computer screen, with the route he wants me to take thoughtfully marked in red; I'm to go past the security checkpoint into the building, down the stairs, go left, go right twice, then left again, enter unlocked cupboard, shift things out of the way if necessary to reach access panel, use nail-clippers to snip two smallish wires: red first, then red-and-white. If I do it right, nothing at all will happen, which is the entire point. Then back up, returning the way I came, out to the car where Lena will be waiting. She will give Leo the all-clear to move ahead, and she and I will return here to the safe-house.

I ask him to go over the plan a few extra times, so that I have a chance to covertly study his computer screen some more. There are other schematics on the screen that he _hasn't_ shown me, ones that seem to have a route marked in blue. That route doesn't just go through corridors; although it enters the building from a rooftop escape, some of it looks like it goes through ventilation ducts and mechanical access pathways, and it ends in a pulsing dot in a smallish room on LL2. I make a point of memorising the blue route, just in case.

I'm yawning despite another two cups of strong coffee by the time Lena texts McCutcheon that we're ready; then there's nothing to do but wait for further instructions. Leo takes out a packet of cigarettes and offers one to Lena, and then to me as well. I let my fingertips gently graze his hand as I take it, and the corners of his mouth twitch up just a little.

I stand up to artfully stretch my back and shoulders, puffing on the cig and pacing around the tiny kitchen, stifling another yawn. _"Aren't they going to wonder why I'm going in to work so damn late at night?"_

Leo shakes his head and flicks his ash onto the floor. _"No. That facility operates 24/7, and even though your clearance is the lowest level, it was issued by the highest; if anyone questions your activities, you may safely ignore them. So long as you remain only in Level One clearance areas, they have no authority over you."_

Wow, I wish I'd known this weeks ago! I could have had just a little fun with it...but I guess that's why Mycroft didn't tell me to begin with. He probably thought I wouldn't be able to resist. He probably would have been right.

_"How do I know where Level One areas are?"_

_"Clearances are marked by signs when you enter an area, and a narrow strip of colour along the walls. Red is Level One, and it follows rainbow order all the way up to Ultra-Violet, the highest. Just stay in areas where the colour stripe is red, and you'll be fine."_

_"How about you, Leo? Are you going to be okay?"_ I have a hunch that he will be the one going in to get the code book after I cut the alarms.

From his look, and the way he shifts his body toward me, I can tell that he's flattered by my concern. _"I'm not likely to get hurt, if that's what you mean, but it would be very...inconvenient for me to be discovered inside the building. Especially as a retired employee, very inconvenient."_ He takes a deep drag on his cig with a solemn frown. _"I'm depending on you, Angelica. We're all depending on you,"_ he adds, remembering that Lena is in the room. She has been sitting silently, blowing smoke out through her nostrils.

" _I'll do my best!"_ I assure him brightly. _"This thing that you're supposed to get, whatever it is, you won't have trouble finding it, will you? You'll be able to get to it and get out fast?_ " Careful, don't lay on the concern too thick...

 _"The...item that I am retrieving is in a locked drawer in a locked office; but there are ways around locks."_ He's trying to sound cryptic, but I know exactly what he is referring to--air ducts and mechanical access walkways can go right around a locked door.

I toss my cigarette butt into the crusty sink and flop down again into one of the cheap vinyl chairs around the table, feeling it protest under my impact. I'm suddenly starving, painfully hungry. " _Please, is there anything to eat around here? Anything at all?"_

Smiling, Leo opens the valise at his feet and hands me a small, squashed packet of crisps. _"Sorry, but this is the only food I have right now. Perhaps Lena will stop for you to get some takeaway after you've finished your mission."_

Lena quirks her mouth a little, commenting quietly in Russian, _"Sure, I've got nothing better to do than get takeaway for a stoner with the munchies._ " They murmur a little more back and forth in Russian about kids-these-days; I understand most of it, but I totally ignore them both and concentrate on ferreting out the last stale, greasy crumbles of salty crisps.

A teensy plan has emerged in my brain, and I decide to give it a try. I casually announce that I need to use the toilet and start to leave the kitchen, but Lena jumps up and insists on escorting me to the tiny, windowless loo just off the entry. She makes a show of opening the door for me and saying, with emphasis, _"I'll be right out here if you should need anything."_

Damn, there went that idea! I guess sneaking out the front door was a lame idea anyway. I'm sobering up, but not fast enough, and it's taking considerable effort just to keep from sinking down into comforting numbness. Standing in front of the splotched and chipped mirror, washing my hands in the dubious sink, I vow to never, ever again take anything that Evan McCutcheon offers me.

I take my time at the sink, tidying my hair a little and contemplating my reflection. Very little about the pretty blonde looking back at me seems familiar, and it's not just the opium haze; I hardly know myself these days, not really. It's not just suddenly having memories that I didn't have before, it's as if who and what I thought I was has been cracked wide open.

The only thing I've ever thought was special about me was how I looked; when you grow up hearing, "Aren't you the pretty one!" all the time, that's what you hang onto. Being "the pretty one" is such a huge asset...it seems unfair to think I might have other assets, too. I have this weird feeling that I'm not allowed. Sarah was "the smart one," I was "the pretty one," and that was that. But...that was a long time ago. And maybe it wasn't ever true to begin with. Maybe...

 _"Hurry up!_ " Lena bangs her fist against the door. _"Mr. McCutcheon has texted me, it's time!"_

 _Showtime, Angelica!_  I take one last look at the stranger in the mirror, straighten my skirt, and open the door to find Lena standing in the door-frame with her arms crossed. " _Let's go,_ " she says, and turns on her heel, walking off without looking back. I follow her outside into the warm summer night.

Leo is waiting for us by the car, looking both nervous and serious. " _Here, put these in your pocket."_ He hands me the nail clippers that I'm to use to cut the wires, and I bend down and tuck them into my boot. " _What?_ " His thin face is creased with puzzlement. _"Why did you put it in your bloody boot?"_

 _"No pockets,"_ I shrug.

He shakes his head, looking grimly amused. _"You are a piece of work, aren't you? Okay, run through your assignment one more time, please. Tell me step by step what you are going to do."_

I recite the drill once more, and he all but pats me on the head after I'm done. _"Yes, yes. Good. Now, stay calm, and do exactly that, and you will be in and out in no time. In no time at all we'll be done with this, it will be all over."_ I get the feeling that he's trying to reassure Lena and himself as much as me.

 _"Thanks. Good luck, Leo!"_ I flash him my best friendly smile. You never know when you might need an ally.

I guess I laid it on too thick, because he just nods, a little embarrassed, and says, _"Yes."_

Lena opens the rear door for me and jerks her head to indicate I should get in; I meekly slide in and buckle up. She pulls open the driver's side door, but Leo stops her before she sits down, placing a hand on her shoulder and softly saying her name––then he quickly, urgently leans down to kiss her. It's unexpectedly sweet, and I find myself blushing as I turn my eyes away.

I hear her murmur something to him about safety, and Leo's deep voice answers quietly, also in Russian, _"You be careful, too. And don't try to dispose of the body on your own, wait for Andres. Your back is still not so good, and she's not a small one."_

 _Dispose of the body...she's not small._  It's stupid, but I feel hurt. Not angry, not frightened, hurt. I feel like crying. Why is everyone so awful? And why am I so surprised by that? Do I somewhere deep down still believe that just because I try to be a nice person, everyone else will, too? That just because it wouldn't occur to me to murder someone in cold blood...

 _Fuck it._ I feel a surge of cold, clean anger blow through me, and my brain-fog tears away a little more as Lena gets into the car and starts it up. Our departure and progress is much more sedate this time; she is obviously focused more now on avoiding attention than escaping any followers. I lean back and close my eyes, seeing my situation spread out in front of me like a big game of chess. That pawn there, that's me, being moved back and forth by anyone and everyone.

McCutcheon is not just after the money from the Torch; this is a payback for something. He seems determined to inflict as much damage as possible on Mycroft, and I'm certain that it's going to include framing him for my murder.

Mycroft, who obviously has been manipulating and using me ruthlessly... Mycroft, who let Steen die, and had the temerity to send his body off like he regretted it... Just a show, and for what? Does he just get off on messing around with people's minds? Is all of this just part of his control kink, or is he caught up in webs I don't even know about?

I rein my speculation in and focus on the problem at hand. I'm certain that Lena has been given orders to kill me as soon as I'm no longer useful. And I don't want to, I _won't_ , go in there and cut those wires. I can't have it on my conscience what could happen if McCutcheon gets his hands on that code book and sells the information. I need to prevent this from happening tonight, and let someone who will take me seriously know what is going on.

And then I need to get the hell away from everybody, from McCutcheon, from his goons––and from Mycroft. Especially from Mycroft. I think I need to find a way to leave the country, honestly, but I have no clue where to go or how I would get there.

One thing at a time.

The car slows down, and with a sinking feeling I realise that we have arrived, and I still have no plan, no plan at all. Lena pulls into a carpark and glides the saloon into an occupied row, disappearing amongst the other nondescript cars. She opens the door for me again, and, as I get out, she pulls my mobile out of her pocket, slips it out of the black case, and pops the back open to remove the battery. She holds it out to me, although I take it reluctantly.

 _"They can track it without the power being on, and you won't be needing to make any calls in there,"_ she states flatly. _"You are clear about what you are to do?_ " I nod at her. _"And you are clear about the consequences if you do not?"_ Again, I nod. _"Good. Believe me, you do not want to get on Mr. McCutcheon's bad side. Or mine. So, be a good girl, yes?"_

 _NO_  but I don't say it out loud. Lena points in the direction of the target building and crosses her arms with an expectant look. I gaze down at her for a moment in the harsh light of the carpark, wondering exactly how she is supposed to kill me when I come back. She could be wearing a handgun in a holster under that suit coat, or possibly a knife. Our eyes lock, and Lena answers my thought by pulling back the front flap of her coat, just enough so I can see a lightweight holster, and the outline of some kind of firearm in it.

She shrugs her suit back into place, carefully smoothing the fine fabric so nothing will show. Her face remains completely expressionless, but I get the feeling that she has zero qualms about shooting me. She nods slowly, deliberately in the direction I'm to go--and I can't think of anything better to do, so I turn and start walking. My legs mechanically carry me along the pavement, my shadow angling as it lengthens and shrinks under the bright street lights, until I am standing in front of the squat little edifice, looking at the door and wondering what on earth I am going to do.

It looks even more anonymous than the photo Leo showed me. Everything about the grey, faceless entry from the street says, _This is not the building you are looking for._  No ornament, no windows, no marquee. Not even a visible street number; I didn't know that was legal, to not have a number. For a place like this, though, maybe legal is beside the point. It's a blank wall, punctuated only by a single darkened glass door--oh, and festooned up at the top corners with clusters of CCTV cameras.

The door opens, and two men walk out, both in dark suits. They look me over curiously as they exit, continue to evaluate me as they pass by. I smile at them confidently, and step onward toward the door. If I break and run now, I don't reckon I'll get very far. Lena is watching me from the carpark, and the building is situated so that there is no cover at all around the front, no convenient alleys to dodge down.

Who knows, there might even be snipers on the rooftops or something--although this operation of McCutcheon's seems a little too minimalist for that. He's probably relying mostly on my fear of what he'll do if he catches up with me. Honestly, though, I'm past being afraid right now, although I don't know if that's a good thing or not. Things have just happened so fast... I pause with my fingers on the pull-handle of the dark glass door.

 _Happened so fast..._  McCutcheon hasn't given me time to think about anything; he's been trying very hard to keep me off-centre, every step of the way. Damn. Right from the start tonight, when he came right out and admitted that he was the one who had the flat under surveillance, he has been keeping me off-balance, pushing one way and then another. He doesn't want me to have time to think, only to react, and he's been calling the shots to get the reactions he wants. Well, this pawn is about to get _very_ unpredictable herself.

Clearing security is a little hairy, but not for the reason I'd expect. The bored young soldier on the other side of the perspex cube glances at my ID and has me lay my hand flat on a small glass plate for a moment, practically yawning--then he stares at his computer screen in consternation.

 _"Um, you are on staff for a...Mr. Holmes?"_ he asks, and I nod brusquely. _"Yes. Is there a problem?"_

The bloke scratches his head, and says, _"Well, no, not really. His clearance is Ultra! But I've never...I don't know who he is, and I thought I knew all of them, there's not many Ultras...it's just a bit odd, you know?"_ He shrugs, and gives me a red plastic tag to clip on the neckline of my dress. _"Have a nice evening, Miss Talbot."_

Before I'm allowed to leave the plastic box, a second bored bloke in uniform runs a metal-detector wand over me. He pauses briefly at my boot, but the clippers apparently aren't enough metal to even bother asking about, so he just carefully checks that area out, and moves on. Once he's done, off I go.

Or not. A few dozen steps out of the security cube, and I am frozen in place. This is where I have to get past the lifts to get to the stairs, and I can't do it. I simply can't. My feet won't move, I'm stuck to the floor as if glued, overcome with terror that one of the doors will go Ding! and open as I go past. I glance around, glad that at least there aren't many people around this time of night to see me acting so strange.

So, now what? Well, I didn't plan on cutting the damn wires anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter if I go down to the first sub-floor or not. But, I do need a place to stop and think for a few minutes, to make some kind of plan. I can't just stand here, I can feel the soldiers staring at me already.

A loo. I need a ladies' room. I don't know what it is with me and loos, but they're like a refuge, a sanctuary. I cast my eyes around the lobby, and spot the sign for the loos--on the other side of the lifts. Bloody hell.

I have to shut my eyes to do it, but I'm actually able to walk past the lifts without being triggered into a major panic. _Breathe...relax...breathe_...and then I'm past the lifts, and pushing open a solid wooden door.

It's small, as these things go, but there's the mirror, the sinks, the stalls, the tiled floor, the chemical sweetness of room freshener...safety. I have to wee again, from anxiety and all that coffee, and then I slowly wash up, still doing my breaths.

Right. Here we are. A plan. I need a plan. How am I going to stop McCutcheon from getting his paws on the code book and selling it? The more I think about it, the more terrified I am about the consequences for us all if that happens. If I duck out of here, assuming I CAN duck out of here, then there's nothing to stop him from using his double to have another go at it. I couldn't live with myself if that happened.

I could try to tell the guards out in the entry what's going to happen, but they would want to take me into custody for questioning...and Mycroft would certainly want to question me himself when he gets back...the thought makes me shudder. McCutcheon said that Mycroft would use any excuse at all to terminate me, and I can't say that I'm sure he wouldn't.

I could try to send out an anonymous warning, but would anyone take that seriously? I doubt it. Useless. What the hell am I going to do?

Sighing, I lean my forehead against the cool smoothness of the mirror, and stop trying so hard to _think_  of what to do. Eyes closed, I lean, and breathe, and what floats into my mind's eye is Leo's computer screen. The two routes, the red and the blue. The red one, mine, going down to LL1, into that little broom cupboard... Leo's blue route going down, around...then down to LL2, and the locked office...and the locked desk drawer....

I pop my eyes open, staring at my reflection nose-to-nose. Suddenly, it's completely obvious what I have to do. I have to steal the code book before they do, and then run like hell.


	30. "Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; make it hot by striking."  ~ William Butler Yeats

 

Knowing what you have to do and wanting to do it are two completely different things most of the time, and right now is no exception. This is serious shit I am contemplating. If I steal that code book, there is no going back. I'm going to be running for my life from both Mycroft and McCutcheon.

But what choice do I have? I might still be high or something, but I can't think of any other way out of this. I can't let McCutcheon get his hands on the book...but, if I take it, Mycroft is going to be convinced that I've turned on him...

As if it matters. That bastard was probably going to find some reason to terminate me eventually anyway. Like McCutcheon said, I'm too close, I know too much. I'm a risk, and someone as risk-averse as Mycroft has to have effective ways to manage risks; and what could be more effective than elimination?

I look my reflection in the eye. Get over it, Angelica: you're disposable. So. Fuck it.

I'll show them what disposable can do. I straighten my skirt, even out my tights, and adjust my bra, all the while visualising exactly what's going to happen next. I'm going to follow the little route that Leo so painstakingly laid out for me, I'm going to cut those stupid wires in that stupid cupboard...and then I'm going to pick up the blue route, Leo's route. I memorised it, I can see it clearly in my mind's eye. I'm going to go down to LL2 to that locked drawer in that locked office, and steal that bloody code book.

And then I'm going to make my way up to the rooftop, where Leo will be waiting, expecting Lena to text him with the all-clear...but he won't be expecting me. I'm going to have to take on one or the other of them, and Leo is the better target, since I know for a fact that Lena has a gun; besides, I have a feeling that she's the brawn to Leo's brain. I really hope that McCutcheon is consistently a minimalist when it comes to staff, and Leo is by himself...

After that, I don't know. I don't have time to think about it right now. I need to act while I still can, while I still have the element of surprise working for me.

But there's something I have to do first. Reluctantly, I pull my phone out, hefting the solid little slab in my hand. I really love my phone, it's sleek and fast, with an app for every bloody thing, and all my music and stuff on it...I put it carefully down on the floor, and, raising my knee up high, stamp the heel of my boot down again and again, until the glass face is shattered into a million bits, and the electronic guts are pulverised. _Track that, Mycroft Holmes._ I'd rather live without my mobile than have it used against me anymore.

No time to feel bereft, no time for anything. I stride out of the toilet and down the emergency stairs quickly, purposefully, confident. If anyone is watching, I don't want them to think I'm doing anything but going about my rightful business.

I feel focussed, like an arrow hissing though the air, on target. There's the supply cupboard, and once I'm inside and flick on the light, there's the little grey access panel way in the back. I have to shove aside the bulky floor-polishing machine to get to it, but no problem. I pull open the little door only to be confronted by a tangled mess of wires, all colours, going every-which-way; there's got to be at least five red ones! Shitshitshit. How am I supposed to...?

Right. Slow down, breathe. Leo probably installed this bloody thing, he's a techie of some sort, he knew what he was on about, so just slow down and _look_....I follow the red first, that's the first one I'm supposed to cut...around...under...that's a connector there... and it dawns on me that there aren't five red wires, it's only one. Sometimes I'm just a little dim.

It takes a lot more pressure to snip the wire than I thought, and I'm not sure that the clippers are going to be up to the job, but eventually the plastic sheathing gives and I am twisting the cutting edge through the thin copper core and poking through the rest of the electrical guts behind the panel for the next one, the red-and-white.

I clip that one, and nothing continues to happen, just like it's supposed to. I think I got it right. Now, onward.

I'm not sure why, but I take a few extra seconds to put the cupboard back to rights, closing the little grey door, moving the floor machine back to where it started out. Maybe it'll keep them wondering for a few precious extra minutes.

The blue route. I stop before going back out into the corridor, tracing it in my mind. I need to get down to LL2, then over to the loos on that level, where I can hopefully hop up into something that will get me over to the locked office. I'm not sure precisely what I'm looking for, but I am sure of the route I saw on those diagrams; it followed the ventilation ducts.

The corridors are completely deserted, the entire building is quiet as a morgue down here. I re-trace my steps to the stairwell, only realising as I pull open the door that the lift is right there beside. Huh. Either I'm getting better, or I don't have the resources to be terrified of two things at once. No time to contemplate it! I bound down the stairs.

Where I come out is still Level One clearance, judging from the narrow red stripe along the walls on both sides. That's good. The longer I'm able to go without looking suspicious, the better. I have seen a few CCTV cameras since I left the main lobby, but honestly not as many as I would have thought.

And there's certain not to be any in the loo. It's identical to the one upstairs, right down to the floor-plan and the chemical-sweet air freshener. I stand in the middle of the room, looking up. It's a standard dropped ceiling like I've seen everywhere all my life, big white rectangular tiles of fire-resistant fibrous something-or-other laid into a grid of metal strips, suspended from the true ceiling above. A retro-fit, Leo had said, meaning that the original ceiling was much higher, and it had been lowered to make room for modern ductwork and wiring and such.

The round ventilation grille set into the ceiling is hardly big enough for me to get my head into, so it's no good to even think about getting in there. But I'm certain that Leo's route to the locked room passed right overhead. Right here, beside the vent.

I step up onto the sinks, and push up one of the big white ceiling tiles out of its frame, sliding it over to stick my head up into the space above. It's dimly lit by the lights from down below, and it looks...surprisingly spacious. The old ceilings must be really high! I can see the fat round tube of the ventilation duct rambling along, and the stout support-wires that run from the true ceiling down to the suspended metal grid, holding it up. I push experimentally down on the metal grid, testing. It doesn't wobble, but will it hold me if I climb up there?

Only one way to find out. I pull myself up into the space, and find that the tiles are more robust than I thought, at least as long as I keep my weight evenly distributed on hands and knees. So far, so good, but how am I going to navigate up here? What I wouldn't give for a little torch right now. I bet Leo has one, lucky bastard.

And never mind about navigating...how am I going to get through solid walls? As my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, I can see that the walls of the room below me extend up to the original ceiling, disappearing into the gloom overhead.

I don't know exactly how this is going to work, but I'm certain that the route followed the ductwork. So, follow the damn ductwork. I carefully crawl forward a few feet until I reach the wall where the big metal tube passes through it: and I discover that I can, too. The lathe-and-plaster wall has been cut with a pass-through wide enough to allow for the ductwork and various metal and plastic pipes and conduit...and me.

Right. _Okay._ I can do this.

Carefully, I crawl forward, keeping the air duct on my right by feeling for it every now and then. It's completely filthy up here, blanketed in dust; I can feel it under my hands, sticking to my palms, and even my slow, careful movements stir up a cloud of it that tickles my nose and makes it run a bit, keeping me on the verge of sneezing. To make things worse, within the first three seconds I feel my tights snag and ladder. Damn, I hate that! I hate ruining a perfectly good pair of tights, and the bloody dress is probably going to get destroyed as well. I wouldn't have worn it if I'd known how this evening was going to turn out!

Slowly, slowly I creep forward, keeping to the path I remember from the diagrams. As my eyes grow accustomed to it, I realise that it's not totally dark up here after all. Some light leaks up in slivers from down below where the panels don't quite meet the edge of their metal casements, and I can make out the shadow of the big metal duct beside me, as well as looming shadows of the occasional wall.

Once, twice, I feel a panel start to give under my weight, and I grab onto anything I can to keep it from collapsing under me. I don't go through, but the tiles bend a little, letting in a thicker stream of light. No help for it, keep on. I try to stay more on the metal grid than the tiles, but it's hard on my poor knees.

One crawl-step at a time eventually brings me to the downward vent outlet that marks the target room, the locked door with the locked drawer. _Yes!_

I pull up a tile out of the metal frame, and slide it wide enough to lean over and peer down.

The smallish room below me is not at all dark; there is a fair amount of greenish glow coming from a brightly-lit aquarium in the corner, its shoals of colourful fish darting around clumps of rock and driftwood. In the centre of the room is a big desk; stocked with the requisite computer and keyboard, it's also cluttered to overflowing with stacks of papers and folders, several boxes of tissues, mugs stuffed with pens and pencils, a raft of wife-and-the-kids photos in tacky frames, and a lot of other rubbish. Behind the desk is a comfy swivel chair, a big filing cabinet sits in the corner. No sign of anyone about.

I swing myself down and drop lightly to the floor, finally letting loose with a few stifled, sloppy-wet sneezes.   _U_ _gh!_ Flailing about, I grab a tissue from the desk to wipe up the mess on my face, and it comes away streaked with grey. Lord only knows what my face looks like, I don't want to think about it right now.

I toss the soiled tissue into a bin, and crouch down to examine the desk and its drawers in the eerie aquarium glow. All wooden, not terribly new, but not ancient. Kind of standard-issue government _bleh_. Drawers on both sides of the knee-hole; the ones on the right don't have locks, the two on the left do.

I don't doubt that Leo has all kinds of lock-picking tools in his kit. I don't have his kit, all I have is my brain, a little brawn, and a fuck-ton of smouldering anger. I am SO fed up with everyone and everything, I just want to get done and get out of here!

The code book has to be in one of the locked drawers, and I reckon it's the top one; the bottom drawer looks like it's for file folders. Although not Mycroft-worthy top-of-the-line, the desk is well-made; the drawer is tightly fitted and doesn't jiggle at all. I run my fingers over it, feeling the grain of the wood. Oak, white oak, to be exact. Auntie took me antique-hunting sometimes when we went travelling for her dog shows; she was delighted that I actually noticed the different types of furniture wood, so she taught me the basics. Oak is very hard and durable, but it's brittle, and prone to cleaving along the grain if a hard enough blow hits it just...like a blind man reading, I skim my fingertips over the face of the drawer...there. Right there. A dimpled furrow in the coarse wood-grain, like a fault-line. If I can hit it hard enough...Damn! What I wouldn't give for a chisel and hammer right now.

I rock back on my heels and sweep my gaze around the room, trying to imagine what I could use. I'm sure as hell not giving up now, not when I've come so far. I stand up, pawing through the clutter on the desk. This bloke, whoever has this office, he's not half messy. I sift through all sorts of flotsam and jetsam, including a brass-and-walnut desk sign that proclaims _Dr. Andrew Sargent_. Oops, sorry Dr. Sargent, hope you don't get sacked for this. And you maybe should clean off your desk once in a while, sir.

I don't find anything topside that is useful, so I slide out the shallow drawer in the middle above the knee-hole; that is a rubbish tip as well, stuffed with odds and ends: including a packet of condoms. Oh, my, Dr. Sargent. Bad boy.

Then, I hit jackpot! Way in the back of the drawer my fingers find something cold and metallic; it's a fancy letter-opener made to look like a miniature sword. Cast in heavy bronze, it seems like it could take enough of a beating to do for a chisel. Now, a hammer.

I prowl the room, biting nervously at a ragged thumbnail that broke in my crawl across the ceiling, peeling off and spitting out the pale pink nail varnish. Hammer, hammer, hammer, hammer...even a rock would do. A lump of something, anything hard. There's an assortment of paperweights on the desk, but they are all glass, and I don't fancy shredding my hand if the weight should shatter.

The aquarium. Peering into the glow, I can see that there are some interesting, weirdly-sculpted bits of driftwood...and a pile of water-worn rocks, some of them a little larger than my hand. Perfect.

Giving a silent thanks for Dr. Sargent's magpie habits, I flip back the lid on the tank and carefully claim a large piece of granite, flecked with gaudy pink and black. Shaking the water off the stone and my arm, I kneel down again in front of the drawer, balancing the point of the letter-opener against in the spot where the fault-line is deepest, and give it my best shot. The stone shocks painfully against my palm when it hits the butt of the letter-opener, but I wince more at the loud, dull thud it makes. At least the desk isn't metal, as that would reverberate like a drum, but it's loud enough to send my stomach clenching in fear. If there is anyone at all about on this floor right now, if they weren't deaf, they heard that. I've got to get that bloody buggery code book and get out of here!

The one whack made enough of a dent to sink my improvised chisel into the wood, but there's no sign that the wood is splitting just yet. It's going to take a much harder hit. I stand, angling my body so I can give the full swing of my arm and all the force I can muster into it.

The next hit resounds louder than the first did, and although it drives the bronze point far enough in to stick, still the wood won't split. I'm nearly shaking now with anxiety, afraid that there's a security team on it's way to arrest me _this minute._.. Fuck it. Holding the stone in both hands, I pound furiously at the bronze letter-opener, slamming with the rock again and again as the point quivers into the reluctant wood: then, with a pop, a crack spreads from one side of the drawer to the other!

I drop the chunk of granite and wriggle the blade of the letter-opener back and forth, the wood splintering with sharp, satisfying crackles as I work it, wedging and destroying the front of the drawer. A few more bashes with the heavy stone don't hurt, either.

Finally it gives way enough for me to reach in and claw out the contents of the drawer through the shattered splinters. I quickly look over my haul, finding several plain cardboard boxes containing dark glass vials, a small stack of computer floppy disks--does anyone still use those?--and several black plastic zip-sealed pouches.

I have no idea what I am looking for. Just because everybody has been calling it a "code book" doesn't mean that it's a book. It's a key to deciphering the chemical codes, and will likely be at least several pages of information:  but these days, that doesn't have to be in a literal book, does it?

I frown at the jumble in front of me. The boxes and vials definitely aren't it, and I shove those back into the remains of the drawer. The floppies...I look them over, squinting a little in the dim light, and I can make out that they're cryptically labelled things like "Ajax/Red98" and "Perseus/Yellow97." I doubt it. I shove those back in as well. The pouches...I look them over. Opening one, I find it half-full of some granular white powder; it looks vaguely drug-like, but I'm not interested in finding out what. Back in the drawer. That leaves two more pouches, one large and one small.

I pick up the smaller one and slide the top open, and nearly shout with relief. Inside is a little black note book, one of those posh leather-bound ones; it's a smaller version of the notebook that Mycroft carries around, the one he uses as a prop so that everyone will think he needs to write things down like a normal person...

Whatever. Bugger him. I slide the little notebook out onto my palm. Opening it, I can tell that the writing inside is cyrillic, and I can make out a few words in Russian; that's enough for me. I slip the book back into its pouch and stash the whole thing securely in my boot. _Hell, yeah!_

I pick up the big pouch to shove it back into the drawer, but hesitate. It feels...familiar. Curious, I slide the top open. Bloody hell, it's stuffed with money. Cash. A thick packet of PS50 notes, to be specific. I let out a long, slow breath.

So, am I a criminal now? I mean, I just broke into a classified area to steal a top-secret document. That makes me a crim, and if I get caught--unless Mycroft just quietly does away with me, that is--if I get caught, I'll be treated like a criminal; it doesn't matter why I'm doing it. So. Might as well be hung for a wolf as a sheep. I look at the money, mentally counting by 50's to...maybe twenty thousand. Maybe quite a lot more.

I'm not broke and desperate, not anymore. I've worked hard, escorting pretty much full-time, and been able to pay off the student debt from my unfinished degree and build up a tidy nest-egg besides. But if I'm going to have to go on the run now, how long is that few grand I have in the bank going to last me? I'm saving my country here, I should be entitled to some compensation.

I start to reach into the bag, but I can't quite do it. For fuck's sake, I don't have time for moral dilemmas! I have to get out of here, now. _Either do it or don't do it, Angelica._ With a snarl, I zip the pouch shut and shove the bloody thing back into the hole it came from, standing up quickly before I change my mind. I'm no thief. Even though I have to admit that I _would_ steal if I were in dire straits, that still doesn't mean I'm a thief. Besides, those notes are probably marked or poisoned or something.

Time to get the hell out of here. Standing directly under the panel that I pushed aside to drop down into this room, I jump up to reach the opening, catching it with my fingers. Legs pedalling in the air, I manage to haul myself back up and in, pushing the tile back into place, and crawling as fast as I can back to the ladies' room on LL2, then down and out of the ceiling, landing on top of the sinks once more. I take a second to ease that ceiling panel back into place, then jump down and... _oh, my god!_

I catch an unexpected glimpse of myself in the mirror, and it is shocking. I look like a nightmare! I have grey dust streaking my face and tousled hair, my hands are grimy, my slinky black dress clotted with grey dust-bunnies... Without thinking, I reach to run the taps, grab some towels, tidy up... _NO TIME!  
_

It's not easy, but I turn from the mirror and dash out of the ladies' room; the conviction that I have to hurry, to get up to the roof and away from here as fast as I can overwhelms even my fabled vanity. I don't know if it's panic or intuition, but in any case I'm not going to argue with it. Heading for the stairwell, I'm trying to calculate how long it'll take me to run up six flights of stairs; longer than I'd like, and I'll be huffing and puffing when I'm trying to sneak up on Leo...

Hand on the stairwell door, I glance over at the lift right beside. The doors are wide open. I could just...step into the lift. And get there faster. Six floors. _Go!_

Not giving myself a chance to think too much, I swerve into the lift, push the button for the fifth floor, and watch the doors close in front of me, feeling...nothing. I gingerly poke around the space where my anxiety used to be, like when you lose a tooth and your mouth is strange again.

There's nothing. Not covered-up nothing, but nothing-nothing. I vaguely wonder if the anxiety will come back when I'm not running on adrenaline, but in the meantime, I'm grateful. I don't even startle when the doors ding and rumble open again.

Exiting calmly and without my usual gazelle leap, I pause to orient myself, visualising the route that I'm following. There's a sign facing the lift doors, so you cannot avoid seeing it: "Level 3 Security Clearance Only" it says in large yellow lettering, and I can also see the narrow yellow stripes running down either side of the bright, wide corridors. Glancing down at my pitiful little red Level 1 badge still clipped to the low neckline of my dress, I tuck it inside so nothing shows but the metal clip. There, if someone wants to see it, they'll have to ask. I strike out for the rooftop exit, following the route I can see in my head, blue lines on a computer screen.

I'm halfway there when I hear footsteps from the hall ahead, clomping toward me. Fear claws up my thighs, urging me to turn and run, but I force myself to keep going forward. If I keep calm, I might be able to pull this off. Panic makes people stupid. Don't be stupid.

Ignoring the fact that I look like a refugee from a horror film, I lift my chin and keep steady on. The heavy footsteps come nearer and nearer, I'm moving toward them even though I really don't want to. I turn the next corner, and there he is, the Foot-stepper, clomping along in scuffed brown brogues. Middle-aged, balding, thick glasses; a classic aging nerd, he's wearing an unbuttoned suit jacket with a white lab-coat open over it, no tie. Clever but messy, bit of a slob, just like Dr. Sargent down in LL2. I stay properly to the left as we pass each other, neither wavering nor hesitating in my brisk, queenly progress, although I give him a pleasantly disinterested look and a nod.

Foot-stepper smiles at me absently, then frowns as he takes in the state of my appearance. He opens his mouth to say something, but I keep moving steadily onward. Behind me, the footsteps stop, and I hear a polite clearing of the throat. Shit. _"Miss?"_ he calls out tentatively. _"Miss?"_

Steeling myself, I turn around with genuine barely-concealed impatience. _"Yes? Can I help you?_ "

He steps forward uncertainly to close the gap between us, but stops well away from me. _"Ah, is everything, ah, all right?"_   His eyes take in the state of my dress and ruined tights again.

Best to show a little embarrassment. I run my hands self-consciously over my hair, give a little laugh. _"I do look a sight, don't I? Had to go down and rummage around in the storage archives...have you ever been down there?"_ He shakes his head, _No_ : He's quite the type to avoid anything not involving a computer keyboard. _"It's a mess, just a filthy mess. Dust everywhere. We need some maintenance down there!"_

 _"I suppose we do."_ He is looking at me very suspiciously, his eyes narrowing at either my tucked-in security tag, or my breasts. I'm not overly endowed, so it's probably the tag. _"Whose department do you work for? I don't seem to recall seeing you before, Miss..ah?..."_

 _ARGH!_ I don't have time for this! _"Miss Drake. I'm new. Andrew-- I mean, Dr. Sargent brought me onto his team only a few days ago to work on...that new cryptography project."_ I smirk just enough to give Foot-stepper the wrong idea, based on what I imagine Dr. Sargent's reputation to be. Faithful men don't keep photos of their wife on top of the desk, and condoms in the drawers.

 _"Ah."_ Foot-stepper looks slightly uncomfortable, shuffles his worn brogues with a frown. _"Well, Andrew does have all the luck, doesn't he?_ " he clears his throat slightly. _"Fascinating project!"_

 _"It certainly is,"_ I agree pleasantly, adding, _"Such a pleasure meeting you!"_ with a hearty smile--then I abruptly turn and walk away, calling over my shoulder, _"Good night!_ " Fairly rude, I know, but I can tell I've hit the right buttons; he's unlikely to report the encounter any time soon, since the whole thing clearly made him uncomfortable.

After a moment, the clomping footfalls start again, this time receding behind me, and a minute later I'm at the door marked _Emergency Exit Only - Alarm Will Sound!_ \-- and fervently hoping that it won't.

I cautiously push open the door (no alarm sounds) and slip though, gliding up the final flight of steps out onto the roof. The night is still warm, although up here there is a light, fresh breeze. I smell cigarette smoke, wisping around the outline of a tall, very thin man looking over the parapet, holding a lit cigarette in one hand and a mobile in the other. It's Leo, watching for me to leave the building down below, and fortunately, he seems to be working alone. I move toward him, silent as a shadow.

I made the right choice in deciding to take on Leo instead of Lena; it's almost ridiculously easy for me to silently grapple my arm around his skinny neck in a rear choke-hold, and ten seconds later he is out cold. I don't bother being too gentle when I let him drop onto the gravel roof-top; he'll wake up in just a few minutes with only a headache and a few bruises, which is better than he deserves.

I pat down his pockets to find a small torch, and use it to suss out how I am going to get down from here. There ought to be a fire escape on the outside of the building...and there is. A little more exposed than I would like, but at least I'm wearing black, and with all the grime smearing my face and hands, I'm completely camouflaged. I knew there had to be a good use for all this dirt.

The touchscreen of Leo's mobile phone is still glowing on the gravel where it fell from his hand. For the second time that night, I bring the stacked leather heel of my boot down with a crunch, and this is much easier than the first one. Actually, it feels pretty good. Severing the communication between Leo and his colleagues will only give me a few minutes head start here, but I'm hoping it will be enough.

I really don't remember going down the fire escape, but I must have, since the next thing I know, I'm on the ground and running. I don't have a conscious plan at all, not yet. For the moment, I'm just letting the animal in me do what it knows to do: run. Alert but not panicked, I run at an easy lope down back streets and dark alleys.

Gradually my legs begin to tire, and I slow down to a brisk walk, coming out onto a busy street...no idea which one, of course. I let my feet carry me where they will, and I realise after a while that I'm pointed towards home. To Knightsbridge, that is, which may or may not be a great idea at the moment. It's not safe anymore. I guess it never really was. Like so many things in the past few months, that was just an illusion.

But there are things there that I need. I need to pack a bag, grab a few of my essentials. Like, my wallet. My fistful of keys. An idea is starting to form, but I'm still afraid to look at it objectively yet. First, I need to go home, so I can leave home. The pull to get there is visceral.

A taxi will get me there faster. I stop by the kerb, hold out my arm, and it doesn't take long for a black cab to stop. The driver watches me get in, his face a puzzled blend of amusement and concern. _"Are you all right, Miss? Are you...all right?"_

I smile toothily at him in the rearview, my grime-streaked face almost blending with the shadows. _"I'm fine. But you should see the other bloke!"_

His eyebrows go up. _"Okay, then. Okay. Where to?"_

_"1113 Ennismore Mews."_

_"Knightsbridge, then."_ He sounds a little surprised, disappointed. _"That's just a skip and a jump."_

 _"Then start skipping, please!"_ I feel in my boot for my phone, but find the little leather book instead, and my money clip. It really is a short hop to Knightsbridge, especially at this time of night when the traffic is lighter. When I pay the cabbie his fare, I tip him almost as much again before I get out.

I let myself into the flat without hesitation, knowing that I'm still ahead of the hunters. Not for long, but long enough. The flat glows when I flip on the lights, a tiny gem of well-appointed oak furniture and polished trim. Part of me longs to hide under a blanket on the sofa, phone my sister, have her tell me that it's going to be okay.

But it's not, and I've got no time for bedtime stories. Now is the time for something larger, and much, much more dangerous. My eye falls on the closed lid of my laptop, where I left it after tea. Might as well take care of things as I think of them.

I could just smash the whole thing, but targeted destruction is more effective; I loosen the little screw on the bottom and pull out the hard drive. It goes on the floor and under my boot, the metal case flattening and the fragile disk inside making a lovely crunching noise as my data, passwords, history, and former life are definitively pulverised.

Upstairs, I pull my old rucksack down from the top shelf of the mahogany wardrobe, and stuff it with whatever occurs to me to grab. Some clothing for a walkabout, but a few simple, attractive working outfits as well. My trainers, and a pair of strappy heels. Basic makeup, and my Swiss army knife. I shove my handbag into there as well, making sure I have all my keys and identification, my Oyster card, cash, everything. My e-reader, as it takes up almost no room. I contemplate my second phone, the one I had Sarah get for me. It was in Mycroft's possession, so I don't doubt that it's also tracked now, but what's the point in stomping it as well? I toss it inside the nightstand drawer with a shrug, and while I'm at it, pull out my stash of condoms to stuff in the bottom of my rucksack. Working essentials, and the brand I like is expensive.

No time for a shower, but I do take a minute to wash my hands and face, brush some of the dust out of my hair. I change clothes, donning nondescript jeans and a t-shirt, stuffing my dirty dress and tights down into the deeps of my rucksack (no evidence, don't leave evidence) for disposal later.

I glance around the bedroom one last time. My toybox, my small foot-locker of sex toys and tools of the trade, sits demurely beside the silent valet in the corner. Sighing, I open it for a quick last look. There are some very expensive and beloved toys in there, but I can't justify dragging any of them along, no matter how it pains me. Stainless-steel dildoes and medical-grade silicon g-spot vibes aren't exactly survival equipment.

The dark, sharp scent of leather catches my nose, and with it a whiff of expensive men's cologne, and soap...bloody hell, how can that harness still reek of Mycroft? You would think that he had worn it, not me. I lift it out, the brass rings jangling softly, and the sound recalls late afternoons of green-gold light spilling across this room, his smell so close, the feel of his stupid pants and undershirt, then finally, his skin on mine, the length of him against and inside me, the frenzy, the urgency...almost inhuman intensity, god the intensity of the man!

Well, that's done and over with. Never again.

I snuffle, my nose suddenly stuffed with the tears that I swallowed down in McCutcheon's office, and a few more besides. There's a dark wave of pain building that threatens to swamp me: Betrayal, grief, rage; I'm disposable, abandoned again....

Oh, for fuck's sake! The most pathetic thing a whore can do is to give her heart away to a customer. And there I am. Was, anyway. There I was, because I sure as hell am not in love with him now. Now, I don't know what I feel. It's not hatred, but it bloody well isn't affection, either. It's...something else. He warned me; it doesn't excuse him, but he warned me. "You shouldn't trust me." I thought he was being overly dramatic, but it was simply good advice.

I shove the harness back inside the box, close the lid with a snap, and get to my feet. This is no time or place for emotional processing. I can do that later...if I have a later. I feel a shiver of urgency building: It's time I got out of here. I don't know if it's Mycroft's men or McCutcheon's that are on the way, but regardless, the first place hunters look for their quarry is in old haunts, so that's what I have to avoid.

I feel tattered with exhaustion; I need a place to bed down and get some rest, even if it's just for a few hours. Where, I don't know, but I have a feeling that it will come to me once I put my feet on the pavement. Trying not to think about all the things I'm leaving behind, I turn off the lights and go downstairs quickly. I pause in the sitting room just long enough to place my key on the bare coffee table, right in the middle where he can't miss it, then I flick off the lights and let the snug little flat disappear into darkness once more. The blue door closes behind me with a soft click as I sling my rucksack over my shoulder and step down into the warm summer night.


	31. "And this mess is so big/ And so deep and so tall,/ We cannot pick it up. There is no way at all!" ~ Dr. Suess, The Cat in the Hat

 

Stepping away from the blue door and down to the pavement, I glance cautiously up and down the street. A few windows here and there are glowing with the flickering light of late-night telly, but there's not a soul in sight. I can hear the ever-present whoosh of traffic on the motorway, and somewhere a dog is barking. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I start off into the warm August night.

And stop dead in my tracks. Something is wrong...this is the wrong way. Why is it the wrong way? I turned right, toward the park, toward the tube station, just like I usually do when I step out this door...just like I always do...

Right. Mycroft is clever, far more clever than I am –– but, someone that clever no doubt thinks he has me all figured out, thinks he knows exactly what I am going to do. I don't think I can outwit him, but at least I can keep him off-balance.

I go left.

Hitching the strap of my rucksack higher on my shoulder, I move at a quick jog toward the corner, aiming to get away from this place as quickly as I can. I don't even know if I have any hope of successfully eluding Mycroft and his people, but I refuse to just give up.

Besides, he's human, he's not infallible. I have a coin with a hole shot through the middle to prove it.

Just as I nearly reach the corner, the midnight silence is broken by a purring car engine, and headlights sweep along the narrow lane from somewhere behind me. Quickly, I dodge out of sight behind a big wheelie bin, praying that they didn't spot me. After a moment, the car engine stops and the lights go dark; I stay crouched in the shadows, hearing car doors slamming, voices murmuring.

I'm curious if that's Mycroft's people, or McCutcheon's, but it would be suicide to try and find out. When I hear the voices fade, I decide to chance ghosting from behind the bin and around the corner, ducking low and running like hell.

Adrenaline is a funny thing. It takes away your fine muscle coordination, making you shake like a leaf, but the large muscles eat it up like it was jet fuel. As tired as I think I am, as I know I am, my legs are going now like pistons, propelling me away from Ennismore Mews –– although I'm not sure to where. Instinctively, I'm hugging the back streets and alleys to avoid the dreaded CCTV cameras, heedless of any danger other than the one I can feel is right behind me.

When my brain snaps to focus again, I find I've stopped in a familiar spot. _Oh, hallo, cash machine!_ It's a cashpoint for my bank, the one I've been using since I moved to Kensington. I actually smile at it, like a familiar face, then with a jolt I realise why I'm standing here; I need money, and I need to keep moving.

I paw my card out of my rucksack quickly, although it takes a few tries before I can get it in the slot –– fine motor control is not with me right now –– and it takes a distressingly long time to remember what my bloody PIN number is. The maximum I can withdraw is £300, so that's what I punch in, and then wait for the machine to do its thing.

I suddenly think about cameras, and look up; yep, there most certainly is a CCTV staring blankly down at me. Bloody hell. Well, Mycroft is going to know for sure that I went this way, can't be helped. I give the camera a big smile and a cheerful wave –– what else am I to do? Cringe and cry? –– then drum my fingers nervously, waiting for the stupid machine to give me my money.

It's taking too long.

The screen continues to command, "Processing...please wait..." So I wait, and every second my stomach sinks lower. It's taking far too long. Bloody Mycroft –– or one of his minions –– got to my accounts already. I'm locked out.

"Processing...please wait..." Every moment that I stand here hoping the machine will suddenly do what I want it to, they're closer to catching me. Buggerbuggerbugger! I slam my fist against the screen in frustration, and randomly pick a side street to lope down, hoping like hell that I'm not running in circles.

After a while, I notice that I'm steadily headed east. I still don't know what my destination is, but I still feel like I'll know it when I see it: I just have to keep moving in the right direction. The problem is, my legs are starting to get that jelly-wobbly feeling that means they're nearly done in. I'd take a cab if I knew where I was going, but I hesitate to spend the money without being sure.

Finally, I can't keep up the pace any longer, I have to slow down. There is a beneficial side effect, though: in slowing down, I calm down, and take in more of my surroundings consciously. I'm near...Soho? Maybe. I don't know, I don't have my phone to tell me where I am, and I've been running a long time. I'm knackered, I have to sit down for a bit.

I come across a tiny park, a greenspace that isn't much more than a bench, a bin, and a rose bush, but it's well-lit and out of sight of the cluster of CCTV cameras at the busy intersection up ahead, and the bench is vacant. I ease my tired bum onto it and sprawl out with a sigh. I could use a drink of water, but I didn't grab my bottle; next convenience store I pass that's open, I'm going to risk stopping to get myself something to drink, and a packet of cigarettes.

A night bus pulls up to the stop over at the nearby corner, air brakes hissing and motor chugging noisily as a man in a bright blue shirt gets out and pauses under a street-lamp to light a cig. I remind myself to avoid buses; the bloody things have CCTV mounted on them. So do the bus stops, the tube stations and platforms, and so very, very many other places –– damn them. I've taken it on myself to learn a bit about surveillance since I tried to run from Mycroft that first time, when he tried to intimidate me and I ran to the police...first about how easily and precisely most mobile phones can be tracked, then about surveillance in general. Fact is, I'm in the worst possible city in the world to want to disappear in; it's completely mad to even try.

I lean my head back over the back of the bench with a laugh that's only slightly hysterical. Yes, mad to even try. So, obviously, I have to.

My loud laugh attracts the attention of the bloke who got off the bus; he's walking past the little park, and stops to look at me curiously. I feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment, and I look away, but he steps a little closer, the red ember on the end of his cigarette flaring as he draws in. I can tell he's taking in my dishevelled hair, my rucksack, my exhausted slump.

 _"You okay, miss?"_ he asks, exhaling fragrant smoke. _"You need anything?"_

 _"I could do with that cigarette right about now!"_ I blurt out.

He takes it out of his mouth and looks at it with a smile, a nice smile, and reaches into his trouser pocket to pull out the packet, holding it out to me like a tourist offering crumbs to a squirrel. I should know better, but I take one and let him light it for me, murmuring my thanks.

He asks if he can sit down, and I shrug, quickly sizing him up for dangerous or not. He has the appropriate mix of interest and disinterest in a stranger; no weird vibe there. Well-groomed, wearing some kind of uniform of blue shirt and black trousers. He looks a little weary, like someone at the end of a long late shift at work. Harmless, I decide, as he sits down a respectable distance away.

Convinced that he's pulled me, the bloke is off and running. I listen with half an ear as he tells me his name is Nathan, he's a porter at the hospital, he's studying to be a nurse, and all the rest of his life story. I stay silent, so he starts plying me with questions: I tersely reply that I'm from Norwich, that I'm here on holiday to see the sights. Where am I staying? Here and there, I say vaguely, and he leans closer, protectively, listing for me the shelters and youth hostels that are nearby, ending with, _"Are you hungry? I know a Korean place that's open even this late. Do you like Korean food?"_

This Nathan is not exactly repulsive, and I can tell it would only take a little reassurance that I'm a Nice Girl and that I like him for me to be going home with him tonight. I _could_ stay just the one night with him, shouldn't think it would put him in too much danger....maybe get a bit of cash out of him in the morning....he obviously fancies me, he could prove really useful...people in the helping professions like to help....

For fuck's sake, what am I thinking! I'm in trouble, so I start looking for some sorry-arsed bloke to hide behind? Pathetic. I'm completely pathetic. He's a genuinely nice person, he doesn't deserve to get dragged into whatever maelstrom I have at my heels.

I know what will make him to go away, although it's not pleasant. " _Look,_ " I sigh, looking him directly in the eyes, _"If you want me to go home with you, my fee is eight hundred an hour, cash up-front. Vanilla sex only, no bareback, no hard kink, anal is an extra two hundred quid._ " I toss my cigarette butt down on the pavement and grind it out under my toe, looking down and side-eying him. _"No offence, but I really don't think you can afford my services. Thanks for the cig anyway."_

Nathan just stares at me for a minute, his mouth working around a little in surprise, then his eyes narrow with the look of a man who has just been told that he's expected to pay up-front for the privilege of fucking a woman he fancies. I've taken a social transaction and made it a blatantly financial one, and his self-esteem is wounded; even a nice bloke has his pride. He vehemently growls that he wouldn't go dipping his dick in a diseased bin like me if I were to pay HIM, and stalks off, muttering.

Funny how his helpfulness vanished once I wasn't a Nice Girl anymore; happens nearly every time. I stretch my legs out, kneading my tired quads and calves. I should get a move on, but I can tell I'm not done resting up yet for the next push.

Something catches my eye on the brick wall across the street from the little park; it's a large, colourful poster advertising a new exhibit opening at the Whitechapel Gallery. I lived in Whitechapel for a bit, before I dropped out of school, with an artist who had a dodgy flat in a dodgy part of the district that the gentrifiers hadn't "discovered" yet.

Dark-skinned, handsome, tall, fingers always stained with paint...he adored oral sex, was always joking that his favourite number was 69, hint, hint... Barry, that was his name. Pretty full of himself, but not a bad sort. He lived for the summers when he'd take off for the coast –– overseas, even, if he managed to save enough money from his restaurant job. He'd pack up his artist's kit and camp out on the beach, painting the birds...he was always gone for a solid month, every August....

A slow smile spreads across my face. I don't remember the exact address of his flat, but I know the street, and I'll recognise the place when I get there –– and I do believe I still have the keys. Of course, Barry might have changed the locks since I lived with him, but I doubt that he would have fixed that tiny window in the toilet that doesn't quite latch. Definitely do-able. The flat is in a frankly bad neighbourhood that I don't remember ever seeing a CCTV camera in; why would there be? Nobody cares about those places.

It's not a foolproof plan, but it feels good to have an objective, and it feels like the right one; next item is a cab to get me there. It takes some time, but I find a stretch of roadway that seems to be unmonitored, and I watch the sparse night traffic slip by until, eventually, a cab cruises by looking for a fare. The cabbie raises an eyebrow at me when I tell him where to go, but he doesn't ask any questions, and I certainly don't volunteer any conversation. I'm not certain what time it is, but it feels late, late, late, and I am so very tired.

My memory is better than I think it is, because once we get in the district I know exactly where I'm going. I have the driver let me out a short ways from my destination, and give him a charming smile instead of a tip when I pay the fare.

The entrance to Barry's flat lies in a frankly nasty side street, lined with rubbish; there are more abandoned buildings around than I remembered, and more sad hulks of human beings curled up in the doorways, asleep or unconscious. I was right about no cameras; why would they bother?

There's no-one sleeping in this doorway, and no other wanderers in the night, which I am grateful for as I dig into my rucksack for my fistful of keys. I have no idea which ones will work, so I resort to trying one key after another in the two locks. It would be so nice if he hasn't changed the locks! He was a lazy sod, so there might be hope...

Yes. The door finally creaks open to my touch, and I quickly close and secure it behind me. The flat is dark and silent. Boldly, I switch on the light and call out, _"Barry? Hallo? Anyone home?_ " There's no answer –– thank goodness!

The flat hasn't changed, and I imagine the bloke who lives here hasn't, either. It's a high-ceilinged, single room, taller than it is wide, with high windows that make the place impossible to heat in the winter, but on sunny days stream with light filtered by decades of dirt. A bedroom and ensuite are partitioned off in one of the corners; right beside that is a simple kitchen setup with a bench, sink, cooker and fridge. All the comforts of home, even though it looks and feels more like a workshop.

There are a couple of easels set up with various works in progress, and every vertical surface is covered with intense, colourful paintings, mostly of birds. Standing there, swaying slightly, I realise that I need to lie down before I fall down! I make my way to the little bedroom, dropping my rucksack on the floor beside the bed and kicking off my shoes, collapsing face-down on the bed with a groan.

What am I going to do? I am in so much trouble...I try to evaluate my situation, to formulate a plan, but my brain just keeps fuzzing in and out like a radio station with poor reception...

Suddenly, loud and close, I hear snoring! _Who––?_

Oh. I wake up enough to realise, that it was me.

###

Assets: A rucksack full of clothes, a fistful of keys, some few odds and ends, a hundred or so quid, and a code book that people are willing to kill me over.

Liabilities: A code book that people are willing to kill me over. Oh, and probably the most dangerous man in Britain now has a personal vendetta against me, and so do a slew of petty criminals as well.

I wake up thinking about my predicament, and rub a hand over my face, feeling grime and sweat and stale makeup grit under my fingers. It must be a sunny morning out there; the loft is filled with light, and it's streaming in through the open door of the little bedroom cubicle.

I palm my eyes to shut out the bright light, then give it up as useless. I have no idea what time it is or how long I was asleep. I still feel tired, but I'm too awake to sleep anymore. I ache all over, and I'm positively gritty with dirt. My priority right now is a long, hot shower. I strip off my clothes and hunt down a towel.

Slumped against the tiled wall, I let the hot water trickle over my body and ease my sore muscles, and I try to think about what I'm going to do now –– but my thoughts just skitter this way and that. Why won't my brain cooperate? Maybe I'm just overwhelmed. It's too big, the whole thing, just too bloody big. Well, as Mummy used to say, _How do you eat an elephant?_

 _One bite at a time._ Clean again, I wrap my hair in the towel and, naked, comb through the kitchen in search of something to eat. My stomach is pinching with hunger! The fridge is empty, naturally, but there's some tinned food in the cupboard that will do.

I can't be bothered to heat anything, so I perch on a paint-spattered chair and feast on cold spaghetti from the tin, gazing idly around at the paintings on the walls, and wilfully avoiding thinking about What Am I Going to Do.

I'd forgotten how really talented Barry is, although his obsession with birds is a little strange. My attention is captivated by one big canvas in particular, of a gannet flying underwater. It's a stunning piece. Gannets are these sea-birds that dive-bomb into the water to catch fish; they stoop from more than 100 feet in the air and going 60 miles an hour. Once they're in the water, they keep flapping their wings to 'fly' as they hunt, going deeper than any other bird. Daddy used to call me a gannet when I was a teenager and always hungry; gannets supposedly are very greedy.

I can't stop looking at this painting: the gannet's brilliant white form sinuously mingling with a shoal of fishes against murky green waters; the incongruity of the sleek bird with its long, sharp beak flying amid startled prey, their fishy eyes and mouths wide with astonishment....the effect is surreal. Kind of the opposite of a fish-out-of-water, gannet-in-the-water is supremely at home, master of both water and air.

The painting reminds me of Mycroft, actually; gracefully out-of-place, masterfully incongruous. He shouldn't be able to do what he does, and yet, there he goes.... He's quite simply the most extraordinary person I've ever known. So odd, and yet...all that power, that wealth, that self-assurance...I was mesmerised by it. I wanted to be part of it.

Well, for a brief and shining moment, I was. I was his mistress. Now I'm just a fugitive.

But at least I'm not a pawn anymore. I toss the empty spaghetti tin into the overflowing rubbish and take down another to open; I'm certainly eating like a gannet right now, I can't remember the last time I was this hungry.

So, let's evaluate this rationally, Angelica; how big is this mess you're in? The answer is: pretty big. It certainly looks as if I used my security clearance to steal a dangerous, classified document. It certainly looks as if I utterly betrayed Mycroft's trust, and made him look like a fool for trusting me in the first place.

The hell of it is, those things are true, but there's more to it than just the facts. The reason for things –– the context –– changes everything. But will Mycroft see it that way? When he and I started out a month ago, he informed me in no uncertain terms that acting against him would land me in prison for the rest of my life. Shit, now prison is the least of my worries... the image of him casually offering to 'terminate' me is permanently burned into my brain...I can't forget that, to him, I'm completely disposable. Just like Steen... just like everyone, probably. Except for Sherlock, that is. Mycroft cares about his family, because they're HIS. _I look after what's mine_ , he said.

Of course, it's not just Mycroft I have to worry about, there's also McCutcheon and his merry band. Lena was bloody scary, and she and Leo have good reason to hunt me down. As long as McCutcheon thinks I have the book, I know that locating me and getting his hands on it will be his number one obsession.

I could just douse the bloody thing in petrol and light a match; that way nobody has it. But, what if there are other copies of it floating around? The lab notes existed in more than one form, so why not the key to deciphering them? If someone manages to put the two together and cook up some of that nasty shit, it might save lives if the authorities know what it is, what to look for.

I need to get the book back into Mycroft's hands, and somehow make him understand why I took it. Then I need to get the hell away from this city, this country.

There is probably a huge man-hunt (woman-hunt?) going on for me right now, both by Mycroft's people and McCutcheon's, and there's nobody I can trust to help, not really...I can't get Sara involved. Lestrade is a good man, but he's a cop, he can't afford to go against orders. John is sympathetic, but too close to Sherlock, and Sherlock utterly despises me. I have other friends, like Tina and Joye, but they aren't close enough to risk themselves for me. Steen...Well, he's gone. It's just me.

The last time I felt like this, like it was just me, I was hell-bent on self-destruction; this time, I'm hell-bent on surviving, no matter what.

At least I have this bolt-hole; I'm reasonably sure that nobody knows I'm here, and that Barry won't be returning for another three weeks. If I'm willing to live on tinned beans and spaghetti, there's food enough for a while, too. I can pay Barry back later for the room and board. If I have a later... God, I wish I had taken that pouch of bank notes from the desk where I got the code book! Twenty grand in there, at least. I could get myself smuggled out of country with that, buy a fake passport and start over somewhere. As it is, well, a hundred quid doesn't go very far in London these days. Sooner or later I'm going to have to think about making more money.

It'll have to be later, because I have other priorities right now. I cram the second empty tin into the bin, and stand up to stretch my still-weary legs. I may be reasonably safe here, but I can't just sit in this little flat with windows so high up I can't even see out of them. I need to be able to go out and get information, do things...I need a disguise.

There's a full-length mirror in the tiny bedroom, and I go to contemplate my options. I've done a little bit of theatre, I've always loved make-up and costuming and make-believe; this is the first time I've ever thought my life might depend on it, though.

Pulling the damp towel off my hair, I study the naked young woman in the mirror. A pale, fair blonde, tall and athletic. Beautiful face, although it's all cheekbones and strong angles. Big feet. Small breasts, but nice muscles. I check out the rear view, thoughtfully. Not much padding there, either. With the right clothes and hair, I reckon...

A bit later, I'm surveying myself again in the same mirror, surprised at who is looking back at me. I went through every article of clothing that I brought with me and found nothing suitable, so I raided Barry's wardrobe; fortunately, his clothes are a near-enough fit, although a little sloppy, which is actually a bonus. I've scrounged a pair of well-worn jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and a lightweight navy hoodie. My unisex trainers look right at home with the ensemble.

I still can't quite bring myself to look at my hair, though. It's... almost too much. I poked around until I found the electric hair clippers I recalled Barry using to keep his afro tidy, and did myself a bit of freestyle hair-chopping –– long on top, very, very short on the sides and back, like most every young bloke wears it now. It looks bloody strange on me. Androgynous. I've never in my life worn my hair shorter than shoulder-length, so this is quite a shock.

I run my fingers through the spiky pouf on top, grimacing; I need some product, to get the fringe to hang properly over my forehead, and I need to change the colour, as my natural light blond is probably too noticeable.

This is an artists' flat, there's tons of paint around, so maybe I could thin down some paint or something...no, that would be a horrible mess. Although, I remember Barry mucking about with mixing his own paints sometimes; there might still be a box of mineral pigments around here.

I find the box in the very bottom of the supply cupboard, filled with small glass vials of coloured powder, crushed minerals that are used to make oil paints. I know some of them are pretty toxic, so I limit myself to two that I know are safe, both oxides. The umber and ochre powders, mixed with water, make a very dark reddish-brown mud that looks like what I had in mind. I use a stiff artist's brush to work it into my hair, wrapping the mess in a rag and settling in to wipe the pink lacquer from my nails with some acetone, and then chew them down to a more bloke-ish length.

When I'm bored of waiting, I rinse the pigments out of my hair and towel it dry, looking expectantly in the mirror to see that I'm now...

Ginger. Bright ginger. _Painfully_ bright ginger. Obviously, the red ochre is better than the brown umber at staining hair. Well, that's just SO much less noticeable than bright blond, isn't it? I pull a face and toss the towel into the dirty clothes bin. I'll get some proper hair dye today, and fix it tonight.

Right, what other details do I need to tend to? I don't know much about trying to pass for a bloke; joking aside, I've never actually tried it before. I know to pitch my voice a little lower, walk and sit like I'm allowed to take up as much space as I please...

I scrutinise my look in the mirror again, flinching once more at my hair. I look...not much like me, which is the point, I guess. I don't think for one minute that this disguise will fool anyone up-close who knows me; my main objective is to fool the CCTV cameras and anyone trying to pick me out of a crowd. I pull the thick fringe of orange hair down further over my forehead, until it brushes past my eyebrows; obscuring the brow and bridge of the nose is supposed to confuse the facial-recognition software.

I notice that I'll need to keep the hoodie on, no matter how hot it gets today; the t-shirt is sloppy, but my breasts still show just a little, so I'll have to get an elastic bandage to bind them with. My jeans are shapeless enough to hide any traces of female hips I have, but there is still something missing...ah. With a grin, I grab a pair of rolled-up socks and stuff them into the front of my knickers. The discreet bulge completes the outfit, I hope.

I need a cup of tea to steady my nerves, and fortunately Barry has a few tea-bags left in the cupboard; alas, there is not a drop of milk, but I'll make do. Tea without is better than none. I could also do bodily harm to someone in order to get a cigarette right now, but I'm out of luck. It's a pity, because I seem to have started biting my nails again instead.

I sip my bitter, black tea and distil the elephant-sized predicament I'm in down to the immediate problem: I need to let Mycroft know why I took the book, then I need to get the book to him as quickly as possible, all the while staying out of both his and McCutcheon's clutches.

Maybe I could just post the book to Mycroft? Nice and easy, but it doesn't seem right to trust something that important to the post; too many things could go wrong along the way. Go up to him and slip it in his pocket? I'd hardly get within arm's reach of the man before Anthea or Davies took me down.

I sigh and bite my nails some more. I need to be able to explain things to him first, and then arrange a drop-off for him to recover the book. That means two-way communication, which is a dangerous affair. I'm no tech genius, but I know how to do research, and all my research has pointed to the fact that surveillance –– and countering it –– is a constantly-evolving battle of technology. There are loads of ways to thwart having your communications tracked –– and most of them cost loads of money, which I don't have, or take geek-skills which I don't have, either.

Fortunately, there are a few low-tech methods that work, too. At least, I hope they do. What I need is an ultra-cheap pay-as-you-go phone, the cheaper the better, so no GPS to be tracked. Purchase it cash-only, then leave the bloody thing turned off and the battery out of it except when I'm using it, only use it when I'm far away from my bolt-hole here, and only for short bursts of data, like texts. After a few days of use, throw it in the river and buy another.

He'll know I'm in London, but the lack of a GPS means that the phone will only betray my general location to within a few square miles; they won't be able to pinpoint me at all. And, there are eight and a half million people to hide amongst here in the city. Thinking about that makes me feel just a teeny bit better.

Packing up the rucksack just with what I'll need for the day, I hesitate over the code book; the little black leather notebook would easily fit into my pocket, but I don't think I should carry it with me. I decide to hide it here in the flat, and wander around deliberating what would make the best hiding place. Finally, taking some sturdy cloth tape, I fasten the book inside the frame of the gannet painting, centred on top so it won't affect how the painting hangs.

With one last look in the mirror to check my look, I'm out the door, locking it carefully behind me.

The street is a little less scary in the light of day, but not by much. I hunch down a little into myself, trying not to be seen, and skulk down the pavement.

Trying not to be seen doesn't seem to work very well for me. I haven't even got to the corner before two big, rough blokes come walking at me from the other direction, both wearing a nasty smirk. I know they are up to something, and I tense myself to face whatever it is.

They both do the classic shoulder-slam into me at the same time, and one tries to snatch my rucksack whilst the other clumsily fumbles at my pocket, looking for a wallet or a phone to lift.

I'm too shaken for any fancy moves, all I can do is clutch the strap of my rucksack to me and violently twist my body away from them, running as fast as I can to get away. I hear harsh laughter behind me, but they don't bother to give chase; I don't suppose that was an earnest mugging, more like opportunistic viciousness.

I slow down, looking behind, then continue toward the high street, calming myself down by analysing what just happened: How is it that last night I ran for miles and miles across the city, down dingy side streets and back alleys in the wee small hours, and not once got harassed? I saw people, faces flashing by; some surprised, some curious, but nobody at all tried to stop me or interfere with me, not once.

But now, in the middle of the day, I'm buffeted around by a couple of punks as an entertainment; I have no doubt that if I had proved unable to get away, they would have gleefully relieved me of my wallet and rucksack, and probably given me a beating besides.

Well, last night I was fleeing for my life, and more than ready to fight if I couldn't run. Today, I'm skulking, trying to make myself small, not be seen...I'm acting frightened. Right now, I'm walking like a frightened person, all hunched up and my head pulled in like a tortoise.

That's easy enough to fix. I take a deep breath, straighten my back, lift my head, and put the tiniest bit of swagger in my steps, like a young cock who wouldn't mind trying his spurs. I hope I don't look as silly as I feel, but nobody laughs as I pass them, so that's something. In fact, I notice that now some passersby seem to give me a wider berth on the pavement. It's an odd feeling.

The district hasn't changed all that much, so I remember my way around fairly well; actually, once I get going, I find that it's no problem at all to navigate to the business centre. Leaving behind the dodgier parts of town, though, means that I have to contend with knowing that the bloody CCTV is recording nearly my every move, and those recordings are going to be searched by a computer looking to match my face. I nervously fluff my fringe and pull it further down over my eyes. Fortunately, although it's sunny, it's not too warm yet for me to be wearing the hoodie, and there is plenty of other foot-traffic to mingle with and lose myself in.

It takes a lot of walking and several stops to find everything I need, but I manage. The last thing on my list to find is hair dye, but, as I look over all the boxes and bottles of hair colourings, I decide that maybe outrageous ginger is a good disguise after all –– hiding in plain sight, as it were. Trying not to be seen doesn't work too well for me; perhaps I should stick with being seen for what I'm not.

I pause for a surreptitious look at myself in a mirrored display for sunglasses, and it's bizarre to see a handsome ginger youth peering back at me. I look like someone else...I look...

Bloody hell, I'm a ringer for that Russian gangster, Dimitri, only without the dashing scar. I give myself a lopsided, devil-may-care grin and admire the effect. Good grief, I've become my own ideal bloke. Shaking my head, I move on.

It's about tea time when I complete my shopping expedition, and my stomach lets me know it, loudly. I duck into a greasy little cafe to grab something cheap and filling before going on to the next stage of my plan, which involves a very long ride on public transport. Rummaging around in my pockets as I slide into a booth seat, I find that I've got £64.70 left to my name, and I cast an eye grimly over the menu, calculating what will give me the most nutrition for the money and order accordingly; I really can't afford to eat out, but I also know that my brain doesn't work well when I'm hungry.

While I'm waiting for the waitress to bring my burger, chips, and slaw, I open the box for my new phone and plug it in to start charging. It's not all the way topped up by the time I finish eating, but that can't be helped. I force myself to finish the last of the soggy chips and slimy slaw on my plate and push it away from me with a sigh. That might be the last cooked meal I have for a while, and it wasn't very good; however, calories are calories.

I settle up my bill and, before leaving the cafe, make a stop at the toilet. I have to wait for a minute, since someone is already in there, and when she comes out, the middle-aged matron gives me a dirty look as I slide by her to go in. What the hell is her problem? I do my business, but whilst I'm washing up I glance in the mirror and get a shock. Shit, I'm supposed to be a bloke! I completely forgot. I went into the bloody wrong toilet.

The greasy chips congeal in my stomach as it contracts with dread. I am going to get myself killed if I do shit like this, forgetting for even a moment who I am, who I am supposed to be, and what I am doing. There is no room in the budget for error. Any mistake could be my last.

Resolving to stay more focussed, I tidy up, taking the opportunity to unpack the hair gel that I bought and fix my fringe in place over my brows and the bridge of my nose, as well as put the compression bandage around my chest to hold my breasts in more closely. It's not comfortable, but I won't be going about in it all day.

I open the door just a crack and peer out, not wanting to get told off by that old lady, but there's nobody in sight. I scarper off and ease myself into the flow of after-work pedestrians hurrying this way and that, feeling my energy revived by a solid meal.

When I get to the tube station, my intent is to take the first available train going anywhere; I almost, _almost_ screw up again by unthinkingly whipping out my Oyster card –– I don't know for sure that Mycroft put a trace on the RFID in my card, but I do know that any use of anyone's card is tracked as a matter of course; that's how you can tell what trips you've taken and how much money is still left on it. I look at the card in my hand, and can only think what a huge pain in the arse this disappearing thing is. I dare not use the card for any trip that would point toward my bolthole in Whitechapel, but that means more money out of my dwindling pocket. I have to pony up the £4 for a single fare, and I try like hell to avoid the CCTV cameras that seem to be bristling every bloody place I look around the underground station. I can't afford to ride cabs everywhere, so I have to take my chances with being identified by the cameras.

The very next train out is for Epping, which sounds far enough away. Standing in the crowded train, jostled by the crowd on their way home from work, I feel acutely self-conscious. I'm convinced that everyone around me knows that I'm a woman awkwardly trying to pass as a man, that I'm a ridiculous person with ridiculous hair, and I can feel my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. I'm being scrutinised, I can tell...

My eyes dart over to a woman seated a few feet away from me; I can sense that she's the one watching me. She's dressed very nicely, conservatively, like a sales person in an upscale shop, perhaps. Her brunette hair is swept back into a tidy bun, her makeup very appropriate for a lady her age...our eyes meet, and she gives me a flicker of a grin, a subtle salute with one of the manicured hands demurely clasped around the handbag in her lap before she looks away...what is that about?

In a sudden twist of perception, I can see from the structure of her face that the brunette probably wasn't born a woman any more than I was born a man; takes one to know one, I suppose. At least, that's what I hope, that she's the only one who notices. It dawns on me that nobody else gives a good goddamn about my gender; they are all just trying to get home, get by, get along. Nobody is giving the brunette a second glance, and from her gentle smile at me, I wonder if maybe she is recalling her own first forays into the world, nostalgic at my embarrassment and uncertainty.

Just that little acknowledgement, that little bit of compassion, makes me feel a thousand percent better. I'm not alone. Well, I am, and I'm not, both at the same time. The brunette pauses beside me before getting off the train at her stop; leaning close to me, she softly whispers, _"Your package has shifted, dear,"_ as she gives me another kind smile, and pops off the train. 

I glance down. Shit, the roll of socks in my knickers has migrated, and if I were really a bloke, I would be having some definite problems down there! Embarrassed again, I pull my hoodie around the front of me to hide it, and grab an empty seat, chivalry be damned.

It's a long way to Epping, and by the time the train gets there I've had it with being crammed into the tube. I use the men's loo at the station to fix my "package" and push onward, finding a secluded bench in the commons near the station. The shadows are getting longer, and the sky is beginning to drift with heavier clouds as the breeze freshens a bit. It feels like it could rain later; I suppose I'll be walking home in the rain, since I didn't pack my umbrella, but that hardly matters right now.

I pull out the cheap little phone, turn it on, activate it, and add the top up I purchased. Then, I experimentally push buttons to figure out how it works. Very basic, but what do you expect for tenner? There's no keyboard for texting, only the numerical keys that you have to push over and over again to get different letters and punctuation marks. Hideously slow, but I don't expect to carry on heavy conversations via text, so it doesn't matter too much. I only have to be able to communicate basic information to one person. I put his number in from memory.

So...There's no point in delaying any longer. I pull out the packet of cheap cigarettes I bought earlier this afternoon and allow myself the luxury of one cig before I text Mycroft. The smoke is harsh and heavy in my mouth, not smooth like my usual, very expensive, brand. Better this way, though, right? I have to keep everything mixed up and out of character –– or what Mycroft is likely to think of as my character.

I deliberate. What do I say? What is there to say? Should I say hello, how was your trip, did you bring that creep, Cobb, back with you? And oh, by the way Mycroft, while you were away I did something that you might think a bit not good...

I don't bloody know. The keypad is awkward as hell to use, but I manage to get a start on a message; then I get stalled out. Sucking more acrid smoke from the cig in my fingers, I lean back on the hard park bench, staring at the tiny screen. I just don't know what to say to him. I guess it'll get easier, if he actually answers me. I'll have to come up with another plan if he doesn't.

I stare some more at the screen, as if looking at it is going to make what I wrote more brilliant or something:

_Hey, it's Angel._

I can't think of what else to say, I really can't, so eventually I toss my head back and hit the green 'send' button. I hold the phone nervously in one hand, my cigarette in the other, waiting. I'll wait half an hour, no more, then turn off the phone and go. Maybe I should have said more? Maybe he has a new number...maybe–– then my phone chirps a text alert noise.

_Angel. Where are you? MH_

_Here and there_

_Don't be childish, this is no time for hide-and-seek. Tell me where you are, I will send a car immediately. MH_

_No i don't think so_

_Running away will only make it worse. MH_

I stare at that for a moment, reading the implied threat. Is there an implied threat? Feels like one. Before I can tap out a response on this wretched phone, Mycroft has responded again:

_You have something of mine, I would like it back. MH_

I can't resist answering, _You should take better care of your things_

There is a long pause then; that was a little shitty of me.

_So you have already gotten your thirty pieces of silver? MH_

So he does think I'm a traitor. _I didn't take the book to sell. I still have it_

_Then why did you do it, Angel? MH_

Text is so hard to judge sometimes, but that sounded kind of anguished.

_Mccutcheon had plans to sell it to terrorists! I had to get to it first. Have him brought in and make him tell you_

_That can be arranged. However, I should like you to come in voluntarily. MH_

_No_

I start to add about a dozen things to that NO, and after tapping them out and deleting them over and over, I just send the one word. He responds immediately.

_Why not? MH_

_Ask Mccutcheon. Im sure he will be happy to tell you_

Which is an understatement. I know that little creep will positively rejoice in telling Mycroft what videos he showed me.

_What are your terms for returning the book? MH_

_No terms i just want to return it_

_Then tell me where you are. MH_

_No_

_You are being very foolish! MH_

_I dont trust you. At. All._

There is a long pause then, and into the silence I add, _Ask Mccutcheon_

And as an afterthought, I add a final text, _Laters_

When I turn the phone over and slide open the cover to remove the battery, my hands are shaking only a little, but my stomach is doing somersaults.


	32. "When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time." ~ Maya Angelou

 

My nerves are still jangling when I board the tube for the trip back toward Whitechapel. At least the coach isn't so crowded now with warm bodies swarming home; I'm able to find a corner to slump in, and a wall to lean my shoulder against, obsessively replaying that text conversation with Mycroft over and over again in my head.

Mycroft thinks I stole the code book to sell it.

He thinks I'm being "childish" and "foolish" for not meekly bowing my head and giving myself up.

Every time I think about it I get more angry. Where does he get off scolding me like I'm an infant? Does he really think he can manipulate me with his disapproval like that?

_Well, I've got an update for you, Mr. Holmes; your approval currently means bugger all to me. I've seen how two-faced you are, and I'm done with believing a single word you say._

The angry imaginary conversations with Mycroft go on and on and on. By the time I finally get to my stop, it's almost dark as well. Trudging up from the tube station, I'm met by a gust of wind and a sluice of icy rain. Great. Perfect. Slogging through the wet back to Barry's place, I really wish I had an umbrella and proper boots, except that it wouldn't be in keeping with my disguise. You don't often see blokes like what I'm trying to impersonate using a brolly; they're too cool. I pull my hoodie around me and try to look too cool to care that I'm getting soaked to the skin.

After what happened with those two punks earlier today, I'm not looking forward to navigating the streets in this neighbourhood again in the dark, but maybe the rain will keep the thugs indoors. I stop in at a tiny, dirty convenience store to pick up some milk for my tea, and then head for that manky alley as briskly and purposefully as I can.

Once more, I manage it without getting accosted or harassed, breathing a sigh of relief once I'm back in Barry's flat and the door secured behind me. The first thing I do is put the kettle on, then strip out of my dripping clothes and spread them out to dry.

I have to admit, despite my mistakes that today was a successful first foray. At least I didn't get caught! Although every time I go out increases the chances that I will. At some point, some camera is going to capture enough of my face at the right angle....

I curl up with a comforting mug of milky tea and a heartfelt sigh. Even though I feel much more together than I did this morning, there's still a constant, low buzz of anxiety as background to every thought; that's probably a good thing, anxiety is adaptive, but I can't keep up living in red-alert mode forever. It's exhausting.

Cradling the warm mug in both hands, I'm suddenly aware of how weary I really am. I want my sister. I want to go see Sara in the worst way: I want to take a hot bath in her tiny bathtub and curl up on her tatty sofa with Pablo purring in my lap and tell her all about everything and have her be properly shocked and impressed and worried for me. I don't want to be doing this alone anymore.

But I can't go to her. In that bloody video, Mycroft alluded to "a family connection" that could be used to control me, and that can only mean Sara. I don't think he will try to use my sister as leverage against me as long as I'm giving over the book willingly –– but involving her at all, in anything, might put her on his "to terminate" list. The best thing I can do for her right now is stay away.

I hope to god that Mycroft has McCutcheon brought in for questioning, not least because that will remove that nasty little bastard as a threat. That still leaves Lena and god knows who else at large –– and I can't forget that Doreshchenko wants that book almost as much as McCutcheon does –– but honestly, I'm more scared of McCutcheon than any of them right now.

Rationally, I should be more scared of Mycroft, but I'm mostly just furious with that arrogant, lying, patronising, manipulative git. I glare over at the painting of the gannet flying underwater, struck once again by its odd, predatory grace even as I feel sorry for the hapless fish. Nasty bird.

Is it reasonable, though, to be so angry at something for merely being what it is? I knew what Mycroft was, right from the start: a power-broker, a predator. He's not evil, but he's not at all nice, either –– even though he can act nice when it suits him.

It just hurts so much that he acted like I mattered when he didn't really mean it! But...there it is again: Isn't it a bit silly to be offended by a chameleon changing its skin? Isn't deception the very essence of what a chameleon is? It's just... I don't want him to be like that. Not to me, anyway.

Now, isn't that interesting? Not to me. I don't have a problem with his amorality, I just want him to be different when it comes to me. I want to be the exception. Hm. So, if I were to be brutally honest, what I'm really upset about is that Mycroft isn't living up to my expectations. Basically, I want him to be a completely different person from who he actually is, and I'm absolutely furious that he's not.

That's a stupid waste of time and energy, staying angry at someone for being just exactly what they are. Anger can be useful if it's channelled to create change... but even if Mycroft could or would change––and that's a very big if–– I doubt very much that I would be the agent of it. Being angry at him is pointless; it's probably just me trying to hold onto being attached to him, even in a negative way. I need to let go.

Well, easier said than done. I tip back the rest of my tea before it gets too cold, and go to bed. I need to get as much sleep as I can to be ready for tomorrow.

Unfortunately, red-alert mode is not exactly conducive to a good night's sleep. I toss and turn, thinking and fretting, and wake up far too early, although I feel a lot better after a hot shower and a warmed-up tin of beans. Still no plan as such, except to contact Mycroft again today and try to get something arranged about getting that bloody book back to him. I'm desperately impatient to get it over with!

I get ready to go out again as quickly as I can, feeling a weird sense of unreality when I look at myself in the mirror as I'm getting dressed; who the hell am I now, anyway? I don't know an Angelica with short hair who dresses like a bloke.

Except, I suppose I do now. I carefully arrange my shock of orange hair to hang properly over my eyes, and then bandage my breasts tightly, as a final touch hunting up a safety pin to keep my rolled-sock "package" from shifting around in my knickers again. That was bloody embarrassing yesterday, I need to do better.

It's still pretty early in the morning when I hit the pavements, and the rain has settled into a fine, constant drizzle. I flip up my hood and finger the buttons on the phone in my pocket; I'm impatient to text Mycroft and get on with it, but I don't dare just yet, not so close to my bolt-hole.

Wanting to keep it mixed up, this time I hop buses going to the west end; somewhere around Wembley I reckon I've gone far enough away from Whitechapel to be safe. I'm also totally sick and tired of sitting on the bloody bus.

It's still wet and grey, so I grab a little table and a cheap cup of coffee in a shabby cafe instead of finding a park bench like I normally would. As I'm settling in, I realise that I am not anywhere near as overwrought as I was yesterday about contacting Mycroft; I feel a hard, keen edge of determination to protect myself, and a whole lot of distrust, but I'm not quaking with suppressed fury any more. That's quite an improvement.

I turn on my phone, settling my fingers over the buttons and thinking about what to text; as usual, I'm not terribly brilliant:

_Hey_

What else to add? He'll know from the number that it's me. I send it and wait, sipping my hot, watery coffee and watching the other patrons. It's a Thursday morning, and most of the people taking breakfast here seem to be either students or on the dole. I fit right in, and nobody really gives me a second look. It's not exactly quiet, but the buzz of conversation and kitchen-noise doesn't matter for texting. I drum my fingers on the table, wishing I could have a smoke in here. Bloody do-gooder laws.

I'm almost ready to go out into the wet to be able to light up a cig when my mobile gives a weak jiggle and starts making an odd sound; apparently like Mycroft is ringing me instead of texting. Well, forget that. I hit the 'ignore' button and wait. Eventually, I get a text:

_Angel. Answer your phone. I need to speak with you immediately. MH_

I bet you do, Mycroft, I think as I tap:  _We can talk like this for now_

_This is unsatisfactory. MH_

_I know_

And I don't give a shit, mate. There's an extended pause, long enough that it makes me a little nervous. How long would it take to trace my signal and triangulate my position? Everything I've read indicates that it takes many minutes of tower connection for a reliable fix to be established, and even then it's only a general positioning. I fervently hope my sources are right.

Finally he replies: _I have been in communication with McCutcheon. Despite your actions, I am prepared to be quite lenient if you will come in and surrender yourself and the book. Partial amnesty is not out of the question. MH_

What the fuck? My new-found calm goes out the window: _Bugger ur amnesty!!! Mccutcheon was going to frame me for the break in and take the book whether or not i cooperated so i took it to keep it away from him. I kept it safe when ur own people couldnt and IM GOING TO GIVE IT BACK i didnt do anything wrong or at least i did it for the right reasons. Doesnt that count?_

It takes for-bloody-ever to tap out that text on my wretched little phone, even longer because I'm so upset. I'd assumed that Mycroft would use some kind of drug or something to make sure that McCutcheon told him the truth, but maybe not. Maybe they just had a cozy little chat over tea and scones.

_McCutcheon's account differs from yours. Considerably. MH_

_HE IS LYING!!!_

_Under the circumstances, I am afraid that is impossible. MH_

_He is CIA he could be fooling you._ I have a horrid thought. _Did he tell u about the videos he showed me of u?_

_No. MH_

That slimy son of a bitch McCutcheon! He probably concocted a story that I was working with him voluntarily, that he and I were in it together. Bloody hell. I didn't think he'd pass up a chance to rub salt in Mycroft's wounds, but I guess I was wrong.

_That proves hes lying! He showed me things to try and scare me into working for him_

_Is this why you refuse to come in? MH_

_Yes_

_That is utterly foolish. No harm will come to you. MH_

_No harm unless termination proves necessary isnt that right?_

When I send that message, I stab the green button so hard my fingertip hurts: Take that, you bastard! As an afterthought, I follow with another text: _Disposable people like me have to be careful_

There's a long pause, and I get myself another bad coffee just to have something to do.

Finally, he texts me back: _Clearly I need to speak further with Agent McCutcheon. MH_

_What a grand idea. Wish i had thought of that_

He ignores the sarcasm. _There remains the issue of the book. It must be returned immediately, this is of vital importance. I will arrange a rendezvous for this afternoon, please stand by for instructions. MH_

 _No_ I send immediately. Fuck that, I'm not walking into a trap. _No rendezvous i just want to leave it someplace and text u the location_

_Very inadvisable. I can only clear your name if the book is recovered in a manner that proves you returned it yourself, voluntarily. MH_

Truth, or another manipulation? It actually makes sense, that there would have to be proof that I handed it over willingly. But, will he actually clear my name, or just dispose of me as a potential threat anyway? I decide that the prospect of not living the rest of my life as a fugitive is worth taking a calculated risk.

_Okay but i will text u tomorrow with time and place i choose for rendezvous_

I send that, then immediately send Later and turn off the phone without waiting for an answer. Damn it! Damn it all to hell. Now Mycroft is totally convinced that I'm a traitorous bitch, all because of fucking McCutcheon and his lies. I'd throw the bloody mobile across the room, but I can't afford to replace it.

Furiously biting at a jagged thumbnail, I pull my damp hood up over my head to try and shut out the noisy buzz of the little cafe. What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I can't let Mycroft choose the rendezvous point, it's bloody certain to be a trap. I need a plan, I need someplace where I can be in control of the situation. The opposite of a trap, something that would allow me to go in and escape....

An idea blossoms in my head, although I'm none too keen on it. I swore I'd never go back there, and I'm not even sure of what I'll find if I do –– but it's not like I have a whole lot of other options. It's worth a punt to go and have a look, I guess. Bracing myself against the cold summer drizzle, I go out to wait for yet another bus to take me on yet another long ride, this time to the northern outskirts of the city.

I haven't been back to this district since...since I don't know when. Yes, well, I actually do know when; since Daddy died. Since Sara and I cleared out the sad little terraced house on the sad little suburban street and went our separate ways for a time. There hadn't been any reason to go back since: The area around Edgware isn't exactly a happening place, it's just a smug little suburb with country clubs and golf courses and fields all around. The whole borough of Barnet is at the line where the city starts to shade into countryside, and there's often more grass than pavement.

It makes for nice scenery; I gaze out at the swaths of green as the bus rumbles along. I remember how much of a fuss Auntie made over Daddy moving up here when he was reassigned from Croyden after his injury; she was giddy about how much better it would be for us. She seemed convinced that moving to the north side meant better schools, better neighbours, a better life –– so she could hand Sara and me back over to him without feeling guilty. We didn't know how ill she was at the time. She wasn't the type to talk about it.

I get off at the stop near our old neighbourhood in Colindale, but I don't see any point in going around to look at the house; if you've seen one tedious block of bog-standard brick row housing, you've seen them all. Even when I lived there I couldn't always tell which was ours. Anyway, it doesn't really matter; where I want to go is a fast ten-minute walk away, toward a busy junction on the A5.

I kick through the streets quickly, head tucked down against the constant spit of rain and feeling an odd anticipation, like I'm hurrying to meet an old friend I haven't seen in a while.

When I get to the junction, though, I'm taken aback at how much the area has changed; there's a huge Asda supermarket on one corner now, and several other new buildings as well. I start to get nervous; I hadn't counted on time marching on. Maybe this wasn't worth a punt after all.

But to my relief, there it is, still derelict behind the tall fence and rusting padlocked gate and weathered "Danger! No Admittance!" signs all around: My teenage refuge.

Peering though the jungle of shrubs that have grown against the fencing, I can see that the abandoned factory hasn't yet collapsed in ruins, a good sign. Very little has changed. Well, the shrubs are larger by a few years, and the concrete facing on the one side of the building looks like it's spalled into the rubble, leaving the brick underneath exposed. And the tarmac of the car park is much more buckled and broken by the irresistible push of tree roots and time.

I never knew what sort of manufacturing went on in this place; I never could figure it out. I even looked it up once on the old council maps; the clearest of them labelled this as only "(indecipherable-squiggly-mark) Works." It had been one of several factories on this site serviced by a central steam generating plant. The only things remaining of the works are this derelict factory, and, fifty feet away, what looks like a big heap of brick rubble with a crumbled chimney jutting from it. All the other factories and warehouses were knocked down decades ago, replaced by the rows and rows of ticky-tacky semi-detached houses surrounding this little island of industrial blight.

Whatever it was that this particular works produced, it had been cause for the owners to be paranoid about security; the windows on all floors are heavily barred, rusted iron solidly caging every one of them. All the heavy doors into the place are locked and bolted as well: The old building hulks like a sullen fortress amidst the weeds and rubble

I go round from the main gate toward the back of the works, where a dense copse of trees leans against the fence and rambles down to the lane below. I push through the heavy growth, feeling a tingle of anticipation when I find my secret door still there; it took the better part of a Sunday afternoon to roughly hacksaw an opening in that fence, and I had done it such that, unless you knew what you were looking for, you could look right at it and not really see. The thick, jaggedly-cut wires scrape rust against my jeans as I slip through, springing back into place after I pass.

When I first discovered this place and got through the fence, I had tried and tried to get into the factory itself without success. Even though there were plenty of windows, they were all covered by the heavy iron grillwork, impregnable –– but there is always a chink to be found in every armour, a weakness in any defence, no matter how insignificant. That factory was locked up like a virgin in a chastity belt when they closed it down, but there was one little thing that they forgot.

I scramble up the brick rubble just inside the fence, over it to the side where three walls and a partial roof are all that remain of a second building. As an idle, angry young stranger in a strange land, I had spent hours poking around here, eventually realising that this huge heap of rubble was, in fact, the remains of the steam generating plant. One wall had fully collapsed, but the rest of it was still of a piece, crammed with rusting and incomprehensible bits of machinery and tanks and pipes. The fact that exploring it was obviously somewhat dangerous had only made it more intriguing!

I hadn't been expecting to find the tunnels, but when you think about it, it makes sense. The steam had to be carried all over the entire complex, and steam pipes had to have constant maintenance; back in the 1930's when this was built, the usual method was to dig rough man-size tunnels to run the pipes through. Three of the four tunnels end in cave-ins now, as those went to buildings now long-demolished, but the fourth runs the full fifty feet over to the locked-up factory. My factory.

The tunnel is still as creepy and pitch-black as I remember, with dark ooze rolling down the crumbling brick walls and the floor, splashing dank mud on my trainers. I crouch slightly to keep from hitting my head on the ceiling and fiercely wish for a proper torch like I used to always have with me. All I have in my rucksack at the moment is my cigarette lighter, but the tiny flame is better than nothing.

The door at the other end of the tunnel is an ordinary, narrow interior door, like you would find on a broom cupboard. There's no lock, and it creaks open easily at my touch.

I'm in the small basement now, moving forward carefully in the tiny bubble of light around my lighter. The metal parts of it are almost burning my thumb, and I know I'm wasting butane, so I don't waste time; I hurry up the gritty stairs that lead to the main floor of the factory, stepping through the heavy fire-doors into sudden, glaring daylight.

The main floor is a wide-open space lit by the glow of sunlight filtering through tall, barred windows. All the machinery was taken out when they moth-balled the place, leaving only mysterious anchorings and broken control boxes dangling. Two narrow stairs lead to the second floor gallery, lined with observation windows and several offices.

There's very little in the way of pigeon droppings in here, unlike some urban relics that become positively carpeted in the stuff; I think that the barred windows have prevented most of the glass getting broken, and the bigger birds have no easy access, although a few tiny sparrows flutter from one perch to another across the rust-streaked ceiling supports.

I can't resist taking some time for just wandering around, and remembering: Here in this upstairs office by the window, I read Neruda for the first time in translation, and decided I simply had to learn to read Spanish; here's where I stayed the weekend when I decided I should run away, except that Daddy didn't notice I was gone. Mouldering over there is the cot mattress I dragged up those narrow stairs, thinking that I might lose my virginity to my crush Danny up here –– but I chickened out. Not on seducing Danny –– I did that in the back of his cousin's van –– but on bringing him here. I could never bring myself to tell anyone else about this place, my sanctuary. Not even Sara knew about it.

Well, maybe it's time for lots of things that I never would have considered doing before.

Sighing, I run my fingers through my thick fringe, combing out cobwebs and dust. I hate the thought of bringing people here, but there's no place I'll have better advantage; this was my home turf once upon a time –– this, and the surrounding district. The footpaths and bike trails, the games fields and the golf courses... I roamed at will here for all my years of secondary school.

My plan seems a good one, like it could work. I walk it once, run it a few times, envisioning where I would be, where Mycroft and/or his people would probably be... It could work. It will have to work. I'll make it work.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I raise the little field glasses up to my eyes again, and twirl the focus wheel. They aren't the best, but they serve the purpose; birder Barry likely took his good ones with him on holiday, and I should just be grateful that these were left behind for me to find.

My target fuzzes out, then jumps back into sharp view again. I risk moving a little so I can draw up my knees under my elbows and steady the glasses. At this magnification, every little movement jumps you all over the place, so I have to patiently reduce to wide-angle, then use the zoom to get the detail once more.

Maybe too much detail; Mycroft looks like hell, he really does. The magnification is so close that I can even see the self-pattern weave on his red tie, and the dark circles under his eyes. He hasn't looked that pale and haggard in a long time.

I actually feel a little sorry for him looking so poorly, then roll my eyes at myself with a snort of disgust. If Mycroft is back to being a nervous wreck, that's just deserts. Besides, I probably look as bad myself. I have to shift around a little to keep him in sight as he walks over to the black car that just arrived and leans in to speak to the driver.

I really can't believe I'm doing this, stalking him again. Well, it's not exactly stalking; I'm monitoring, to see if he is going to come to the drop-off point himself, or if he's sending in someone else. I reckon he is going to stay in the background and wait, which means I'll likely be dealing with either Anthea or Davies. The windows of both black cars are tinted, so I can't tell who or how many are in either one.

Then Mycroft gestures, and they all get out of both vehicles. Bloody hell, he's got a whole posse here! Anthea gets out from behind the wheel of the car that Mycroft came in, and Brown and three blokes I don't know get out of the other. Four of them, and I bet they're all armed. My mouth goes dry. I'm tempted to take a swig from the water bottle in my rucksack, but I know it won't help; it's fear, not thirst, that I'm feeling. I hope to god that my plan works, because I'm tits-up if it doesn't.

Mycroft is pointing around with his umbrella –– and I can see through the field glasses how tightly he's gripping it, he's very tense –– the others are nodding –– then they all get back into their respective vehicles, and the one with Brown and the other blokes drives slowly closer over the overgrown and broken tarmac, stopping in front of the main entrance below me; actually, directly below, so they are out of my line of sight now. The car with Mycroft and Anthea stays put at far end of the car park, by the rusted gates.

I count four car doors opening and closing down below, and then a fifth; that had to be the boot, and that means somebody got out kit of some kind. A sniper rifle? Or something. I have to assume the worst, and I'm afraid to hope for the best.

I glance down at the cheap digital watch on my wrist; 4:46 it says, and I hope that's accurate. Fourteen minutes. I tuck the field glasses into the rucksack at my side and pull out the safety helmet, fiddling with the straps and buckles again, trying to get a better fit. I finally give up and shove it back in my pack, hugging my knees to my chest.

When I left here yesterday, the first thing I did was go across the street to the busy Asda car park, locate the bicycle parking rack, and find a good vantage point to sit and watch it without being seen. It was lunchtime, and my stomach rumbled a few times with hunger; I told it to be quiet and wait for the tinned spaghetti back at Barry's, lighting a cigarette to give myself something to do. I was glad that the drizzle had stopped, although the sun peeping out meant it was going to get hot and humid soon. I resisted the urge to squirm and fuss with the damned bandage squashing my breasts; blokes don't fuss with their clothes like that.

Fortunately, it didn't take all that long to get the opportunity I was waiting for: A bloke rode up on a sturdy mountain bike, tore off his helmet, slung it on the handlebars and rushed into the store, too hungry and too hurried to be bothered with locking up his bicycle.

The doors had barely closed behind him before I pounced, jamming the helmet onto my head and taking off as fast as my legs would pedal. I didn't feel any jubilation at my clean getaway, just grim determination. _Sorry, mate, I need it far worse than you do. I'll try to get it back to you in one piece, but no guarantees._

I got off the main road as soon as I could and rode a long loop back around to my factory, checking out the condition and extent of the new bike paths and getting used to my borrowed ride. Everything seemed to be in working order, although the bike was far from new, and actually quite shabby; probably why the bloke hadn't bothered to lock it. I experimented with some off-road moves, and plotted my main escape route, along with several alternatives. I just hoped like hell that Mycroft wouldn't bring in a helicopter.

I hid the bike in the thick vegetation just inside my opening in the fence, well-camouflaged by leafy branches, then caught the tube back into the city, stopping at a street market to buy a cheap watch, a flimsy torch with batteries, and some more so-cheap-they-can't-be-legal cigarettes with my rapidly-dwindling cash.

After another night of restless sleep and a few hours of gathering some supplies from Barry's flat, I came back here to finish my preparations. I knew I would have a long wait, so I brought provisions of water and some tinned beans and my e-reader, settling myself in to stay as calm as possible until it was time to text Mycroft.

I didn't want to give him very long to respond, just barely enough time to scramble a team to get over here. It was hard to wait, though, and I smoked far too many cigarettes and checked my watch far too often all afternoon. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer; I pulled out and turned on my mobile, even though it was a bit early.

_Hey are you ready to come and get it?_

It was a few minutes before he answered me, and I'm pretty sure the delay was not accidental; they probably started a search for my phone's IMEI the second the text was received.

_Where are you? MH_

_Edgware road in colindale. Abandoned factory opposite the big asda. Ill be waiting inside the southwest window by the front entry at 5pm sharp_   I texted, reckoning  that rush hour traffic might make things easier for a bicycle, harder for cars. I need all the advantage I can get.

_Angel, this is unnecessary. McCutcheon has confessed everything. You are in no danger from me. MH_

I was still staring at the words and considering my reply when he sent another text: _You are in no danger from me but you are still in danger. Let me help you. MH_

I pressed my mouth into thin line as I replied: _5pm sharp, southwest window. Dont try to come in or ill burn the book_

When his next message arrived, all I could do was blink at it.

_Please. Let me help you. MH_

And suddenly I was remembering standing in the cold rain outside of the Knightsbridge flat, when I realised that he's not the sort of man to ever say, _Please, don't go._

People like Mycroft Holmes don't change, not that much. More smoke and mirrors, more chameleon tricks. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice...

 _5pm sharp,_ I sent. _Laters._

I turned off the phone quickly, not wanting to read any more lies.

That was a little more than an hour ago. I raise the little field glasses up again, but there's nothing to see. Mycroft and Anthea have gotten back into the car, and there's no sign of Brown or the other suits.

I reach into my pocket and trace my thumb over the smooth leather of the little book in my pocket, then slip my rucksack over my shoulders. I'm as ready as I'll ever be; it's time to get downstairs.

My footsteps make a soft echo on the bare, gritty concrete as I cross the open main floor, and a sudden flutter overhead startles the shit out of me; it's just a little bird, a sparrow or something, that had been hanging out on one of the rusty metal trusses overhead. I pause for a moment behind a pillar decorated with an enormous yellow triangle that proclaims "Danger! Men working!" Peering around it, I suss out the main doors and front entry to the factory. No sound, no movement, nothing that I can tell. I have already smashed out the lower panes of the window to the left of the door this earlier; my plan is to pass the book out through the metal grillwork whilst I remain safe inside my fortress.

My watch says 4:58. _Showtime, Angelica!_ I pull Barry's huge striped bobble hat out of my pocket to jam over my head, hiding all of my hair; the less they know about my current appearance, the better. As I approach the broken-out window, I can hear the low murmur of men's voices, and when I step up to it, I can look down and see Brown and another suit standing just below. That is SO not good; where are the other two?

I turn my head, straining to hear footsteps, but there's nothing, nothing at all. Paranoia is a healthy response in a situation like this, but they are probably just covering the other exits, or maybe covering their compatriots in the event of an ambush. They have as little reason to trust me as I do them.

I stand close to but not right against the window, and call out, _"Hey! Brown!"_

Both men look up warily, tense. I hold up my hands where they can see them, showing that I'm unarmed, then reach into my pocket and pull out the code-book, holding it up so they can see it.

Brown reaches out his hand, palm up, and I drop it down to him. He leafs through the little notebook, then he and the other suit exchange a glance. Brown pockets the notebook carefully inside his jacket, looking up at me.

 _"You know you're being stupid, Talbot,"_ he remarks. _"You should come out."_

I shrug, and turn away. There's no point in carrying on a conversation with Mycroft's lackey. Brown calls out something more in a louder voice, I assume to try and engage me in conversation. Bugger that, I need to get out of here, now. I lope across the open floor, making a beeline for the exit that will take me down to the basement, when I hear a noise from the upper level observation deck, and see a quick movement.

Somebody is up there! Shitshitshit, I have to get out of here, I have to get out now! Helter-skelter I bolt for the basement door, just I reach it my ears are ripped by an echoing bang. That was a gunshot! Those fuckers are shooting at me!

There is a second bang as I tear through the heavy door and jam it with the makeshift barricade I prepared this morning. I don't know if I'm hit, I can't feel anything except utter terror right now, and there's no time to stop and look for bullets or blood. I run! I don't even reach into the rucksack on my back for the torch in there, I blindly run in the darkness, sensing where the narrow door is and pelting through it, down the black tunnel toward escape.

I pause, panting, before emerging from the brick rubble of the steam plant, both to let my eyes acclimate to the bright sunshine, and to sense for signs of ambush. I stretch my hearing around me, straining to tell if I'm alone over on this side of the enclosure or not.

There...seems to be no-one. I slowly ease myself out of the rubble, keeping the piles of brick between me and the factory as I slip toward the fence.

I'm almost to the opening when I hear a shout, and I know I've been spotted. In terror of more bullets whizzing toward me, I dive heedlessly through the jagged cut in the fence, blundering through it in a mad panic and lurching over to the bicycle hidden close by, snatching it up to jam my toes into the clips and pedal like a demon.

A mad downhill slide, followed by a short tear through a suburban street, and then I'm on the bike path through the nearby playing fields, zooming as fast as I can –– but so many people are out walking or biking! I hadn't counted on it being crowded.

I have to slow down to avoid collisions. Maybe I should leave the bike paths altogether sooner than I planned –– but perhaps it's actually an advantage to have all these warm bodies milling about. I slow my pace even more and focus on blending in rather than escaping. Why am I still getting a lot of disapproving looks even though I've slowed down? What's wrong? I reflexively reach up to touch my hair, and realise that I'm still wearing that silly bobble hat instead of a proper helmet.

I make a quick stop to reach back and pull the helmet from my rucksack. Standing there astride the bike, it hits me that my left thigh hurts like hell, and I look down to see a stain of deep red splotched on my jeans around a jagged tear; I've been shot! Oh, god, I've been shot! What am I going to do?

However, as I gingerly poke around through my torn jeans at the bloody patch, I realise that it can't possibly be a bullet wound. For one thing, there isn't enough blood, and even though it hurts, I think a bullet would do more damage than that....although there is a puncture wound, purpling around a trickle of blood... The fence wires. I got stabbed by one of the fence wires as I blundered through. No time to assess the damage; I thrust my toes in the clips again and pedal on.

Keeping to the bike paths for a while, I eventually break out and go randomly cross-country, over golf courses and through leafy nature preserves; getting nicked for trespassing or riding a bike off established trails is the least of my concerns at the moment.

After almost an hour of steady, hard travel, I have to stop to take a break, choosing a thickly-wooded slope. I have a fair idea where I am; just above one of the reservoirs, I think, not too far from St. Albans. Struggling awkwardly off the bike, I let it drop, plopping myself down on the moist ground beside, catching my breath and taking a better look at the wound on my leg.

I gingerly poke at it, lifting the torn fabric and peering inside; it's definitely a puncture from the fence wire. I can't tell exactly how deep, but judging from how much it bloody hurts, it's pretty deep. I'm grateful that my vaccinations are current, including tetanus, but infection is a distinct possibility. Tending to it will have to wait until I get back to Whitechapel, but I should at least put a wrapping around it now.

I know I have a bandana somewhere in my rucksack, so I slip the straps off my shoulders and set it in my lap to have a look. I'm so glad I don't have a bullet wound –– I still can't believe those bastards were shooting at me –– they were fucking trying to murder me, on Mycroft's orders! My fingers shake with reactive anger and fear as I fumble to undo the clasp on my pack.

Then I notice that something is stuck in the pack's thick cloth, near the bottom. I pull it out, turning it over in my fingers carefully; it's a small, sharp plastic syringe, with a bright red tuft on the end. I've never seen one up close before, but I've watched enough telly to know a tranquilizer dart when I see one.

They weren't shooting bullets, they were shooting to tranq me, like I was a bloody rhino or something! I stare at the dart, not certain whether I feel relieved or incensed. Maybe both.

Okay, so they weren't trying to kill me. They were just trying to... bag me. I don't even...I don't know what to think. I rummage around in my rucksack until I find the bandana and tie it snugly around my thigh, fanning out the folds to cover the blood stains as well; best to avoid awkward questions.

I pull out my water bottle to swallow a few mouthfuls, and suddenly a wild grin spreads across my face. I'm not out of the woods yet, but I got away. I won this round. I might lose the next, but this time I won. That's the best feeling in the world.

I mount up and push onward. Originally, I planned to ride in a random directions until I was well away from Edgware, then ditch the bike and catch the nearest tube or bus back to Whitechapel.

However, I am getting quite attached to cycling as a way to get around. I'm fit enough to do it easily, and I've heard it's just as fast as taking the bus, and faster than a car in the city traffic. The only reason I never did before is that, honestly, you can't go cycling in cute dresses and high heels. But that really doesn't matter right now, does it?

In the end, I decide to go to St. Albans rail station and text Mycroft from there, hopefully leading him to think that I'm fleeing to the north country where I used to live, and then ride the bike all the way back to Whitechapel. I can't be more than two hours out; I have least that much daylight left, and fine weather as well. My leg hurts, but it doesn't feel at all weak.

Only a little more pedalling, and shortly I'm sitting on bench near the St. Albans station with my phone and a smoke, cautiously texting Mycroft. As before, it takes a few minutes before he answers my _Hey._

_I don't suppose you are going to tell me where you are. MH_

_No_

_I'm getting tired of repeating myself. You are in grave danger. MH_

_Thanks for the warning_

_Warnings are pointless unless heeded, Angel. You need protection. MH_

_They have to find me first. There's lots of room up north_

_There are a surprising variety of people looking for you. Someone is bound to find you eventually. MH_

_You haven't_

_I'm with the government. That isn't necessarily an advantage. MH_

I have to smile at that. Before I can frame an answer, he texts me again: _This entire situation is my fault. I would like to remedy it, but I need your cooperation. MH_

_Cooperation requires trust_

_I look forward to discussing that with you in person, very soon. And, do be careful navigating the A5 tonight on your bicycle. The road works at Kilburn could prove hazardous in the dark. Later. MH_

Damn him! He just... Damn him to hell! He just snatched control of the situation back from me again. How did he know that I'm keeping the bike, and riding back into the city? The A5 is even the route I was planning to take –– although I suppose that's no stretch of imagination, as it's the most obvious and efficient way for a cyclist to get from northwest to central London.

Still, damn him! I sit and fume for several minutes. There's no point in texting a reply; he probably turned off his phone after he texted "Later" just like I have been. "In person, very soon" my arse! Arrogant git.

I toss away my cigarette butt and throw a leg over my stolen bicycle. It's a long ride back to the city, but at least it's nearly all downhill.


	33. "Should I stay or should I go now?/If I go there will be trouble/An' if I stay it will be double/So come on and let me know . . ." ~ The Clash

Oh, god, my poor legs are so sore I don't even want to move. And my back, and shoulders. And my bum . . . Just rolling over is a trial –– ow! I guess it's going to take a while to get used to cycling. The bedside clock tells me that it's after nine o'clock, and my bladder tells me that it's time to get up.

Limping to the toilet is an effort, and while I'm in there I take a hot shower to try and ease my sorry muscles. It helps, but not enough. My left leg bloody hurts! I run my fingers gingerly across the wound on my thigh, tender pink flesh swelling around a jagged, dark puncture. Damn.

I didn't have the energy last night to clean the wound, much less dress it; I barely made it back to Whitechapel at all. I was so exhausted by the time I staggered into the flat that I simply locked the door, threw down the bike, peeled off my clothes, and literally crawled into bed.

Sitting now on the edge of the tousled bed, I take a closer look at my leg. The swollen area is about the size of my palm, but I don't see any evidence yet of the tell-tale red streaks that would mean blood poisoning; it's a rare childhood where somebody doesn't run into a nail or a splinter occasionally, and both Sara and I had had our share of incidents. I vividly remember the doctor lecturing Auntie about tending to puncture wounds like this promptly, and what can happen if you don't.

I hunt down some antiseptic and a big plaster in the bathroom cupboard to carefully patch up my thigh, and then turn my attention to making breakfast. In celebration of yet another brilliant escape, I decide to splurge and heat up a tin of beans AND a tin of spaghetti to go with my morning tea. Oh, decadence! I wish I'd lashed out for a loaf of bread as well as the milk; some toast would be very welcome right now, and some fresh fruit or veg. I'm bloody tired of just beans and spaghetti.

To be honest, I'm bloody tired of a lot of things. Like, being on the run. Not being able to access my bank accounts. Not knowing what the hell is really going on! Not understanding why I'm in this so deep . . . it's really like I've fallen down the rabbit hole, and probably the only reason I haven't lost my mind is that I wasn't too sane to begin with.

Everyone –– Mycroft, John, McCutcheon, everyone –– keeps vaguely hinting that there is so much more going on than I am aware of . . . but they go merrily on keeping me in the dark all the same. I'm bloody tired of that, too.

After I finish my "feast" and drain the dregs from my mug, I put the washing-up in the sink and lean over the kitchen bench, suddenly weary. I run my fingers through my cropped hair, pushing the long fringe out of my eyes, and turn so I can look up into the sunshine spilling down through the filthy skylight directly overhead. I should feel proud of myself; I foiled McCutcheon's scheme to get the code book and sell it. I made sure that it got back into the right hands, and I avoided being captured by some of the best there is. For an average-Jane uni dropout, I'm not doing too badly here.

So why do I feel like a loser? I consider that while I wash up the few things from breakfast and put them away. Maybe it's because I'm not even slightly in control of my life right now. I'm reacting to situations, not creating them.

It doesn't help that I don't know what to think anymore. I was certain at first that Mycroft was out to dispose of me, but now . . . I'm not sure. Having his men use tranq darts instead of bullets, those texts practically begging me to cooperate . . . . Of course, that could all have been just him being clever, telling me what I want to hear. He's certainly capable of telling anyone anything, anything at all, so why on earth should I believe him? Even his own brother thought I was a fool for trusting Mycroft.

Sighing, I dry my hands and lower myself down on Barry's tattered loveseat, broken springs creaking under me. What are my options, realistically? I can take at face value what Mycroft has been saying, that I am in danger, but not from him, and go turn myself in so he can protect me.

Right. Because he cares so much, and only has my best interests at heart. If he even has one . . . .

. . . no point in going down that road again, Angelica. He is what he is.

Okay. Or, I can continue to doubt every word that comes out of his mouth, assume that he plans to kill me sooner rather than later, and stay on the run, building a life for myself somewhere away from here. That actually sounds like the safer of the two options, although it has the fairly enormous downside of requiring lots of ready cash, of which I have very little at the moment.

It also means that I very likely won't ever find out what's really been going on down here in the rabbit hole; the Torch thing, Steen, that business with Magnussun and the Agency . . . I'll have to live with never knowing for sure how any of it fits together, what really happened.

It's surprising how much that bothers me.

I roll off the loveseat to go excavate my dwindling packet of cigarettes, pulling one out to light as I limp restlessly around the small studio, thinking. Blindly trusting Mycroft is only an attractive option because it would be incredibly easy to let him continue to be in charge. All I have to do is lie back and close my eyes . . . No. Just, no. No more.

But running, that will take resources. Fake i.d.'s and plane tickets aren't cheap, and right now, I have –– I pull out my wallet to check –– I have just twenty-two pounds in cash, a transit pass that's nearly exhausted, and a bicycle that I don't want to ride very far at the moment because my leg hurts.

I could get out there and hustle, work the streets, do whatever I have to do to make enough money to get away and start over, but I'm really reluctant. I've only ever done escorting for the Agency, so I don't know anything about the business as an independent beyond what I've seen in the adverts on various websites . . . and from the adverts, it looks like kind of a desperate business, at least for lower-end sex workers. Working under the auspices of a regular escort service is right out; I don't doubt that they'd take me on, but they'd also quite reasonably insist on publishing my photos all over the internet. Not a good idea if you're trying to hide.

Well, aside from all that, honestly, the idea of settling for a lower class of clientele than I'm used to is completely revolting. Less money, less appealing, more dangerous; I suppose I'm rather spoiled, but I'd better start getting un-spoiled. I can't get a civilian job without showing my identification, so that doesn't leave me too many other options . . . Options!

I slam my fist against a wall in sudden frustration –– for fuck's sake, this shouldn't even be an issue! I have money in the bank already, more than enough! I shouldn't have to work my arse off all over again. It's maddening. And the more I think about my situation, the angrier I get. Scowling, I finish off my cig and toss the butt into the sink.

I want my life back. Mycroft Holmes has it, and I want it back. He wants me to cooperate? He wants me to trust him? Fine, then he's going to have to show me some cooperation first, and even then . . . .

I retrieve my discarded clothes from the floor and wrinkle my nose; all of it is filthy, reeking of sweat and dirt, the jeans torn and spotted with blood. I scrounge around some more in Barry's wardrobe and come up with a pair of very-worn black jeans, a black t-shirt with some abstract logos on it, and a tattered grey hoodie. The clothes are more ragged than I would like, but since artsy dole-scum is the look I'm aiming for –– nobody likes to see poverty, making poor people essentially invisible much of the time –– I decide to go with it anyway.

As I'm doing my hair, working product into the fringe so it will stay down and conceal as much of my face as much as possible, I notice that the screaming ginger colour is starting to fade to a calmer hue; not a bad thing, although I'll have to re-do the stain before it fades away to pink in another wash or two. Don't see too many blokes with pale pink hair.

The big question, now: Tube or bike? The bright sunlight flooding down from the skylights and high windows tells me it's probably a rare sunny day out there, so that's a plus for cycling. On the other hand, my legs are still a touch wobbly, and under the plaster my injury throbs faintly in tune with my pulse. But . . . I like the idea of not being tied to public transit. I don't seem to have been spotted yet on the CCTV feeds –– Mycroft would have me in custody by now if that were the case –– but every time I go through the turnstile on the tube or board a bus, I'm increasing my chances of being caught.

So bike it is, although I won't be able to go far. After a moment's thought, a place occurs to me that's only a couple of miles away, and it should be perfect: restful, quiet, and green. The perfect place for a little heart-to-heart chat. Adjusting the helmet as comfortably as I can, I wrangle the bike back out of the flat and onto the street. My legs hurt more than I want to admit, but it gets easier with each minute as my muscles warm up and the blood starts pumping.

I'm amazed at how quickly I'm able to move through the traffic that clogs the city even on a Saturday, smoothly weaving around traffic-slowed cars and wandering pedestrians. City cycling means you have to keep your wits about you to avoid getting flattened, but I even like that part; I have to admit that the danger even makes it a bit fun.

Less than fifteen minutes puts me at the elaborate iron gates of a derelict Victorian cemetery. A lovely old place, the whole thirty acres is kept untouched as an urban nature reserve, with birds and squirrels and who-knows-what rustling around in the woodland. Like most old cemeteries, it's really peaceful –– and just a bit creepy. More than just a bit, to be honest, but maybe I'm easily spooked today.

I pedal slowly down one of the the winding, shady dirt paths. There's not a soul in sight at the moment, save for an oldie in jorts who's either a professional dog-walker or has an animal-hoarding problem; his five little multicoloured mutts yap and twirl on their leads until I'm out of sight. Eventually I spy a worn wooden bench in a pool of sunlight, surrounded by huge shrubs and mossy granite memorials. Slinging my helmet over the bike handlebars, I settle in on the bench with a sigh, stretching out my poor, abused legs and shivering a little, feeling a chill despite the sunshine. Must be the damp.

I thumb on my little mobile, and, as an experiment, phone a branch of my bank that has Saturday hours. When I give the terribly nice clerk my account and PIN number and ask him to check the balance, I first hear clacking keystrokes, then a long silence. Finally he clears his throat a few times. "I'm afraid that I'll need to refer this to the accounts manager. May I tell her who is requesting this information?"

I ring off; there's no point in taking it any further. My accounts are probably flagged as criminally suspect or something. So, giving back the bloody code-book hasn't changed a bloody thing, has it? I know who to thank for that. As I sit and marshal my thoughts, I get a creeping feeling and shiver again –– it's sunny today, why isn't it warm? I tug my hoodie closer around me, resisting the urge to pull the rucksack off my back and dig out my last cigarette; I may need it worse later.

So I sit and bite my nails instead and, when I feel ready, I punch in Mycroft's number, waiting with butterflies in my stomach to see if he'll answer.

There's a faint click, then a long pause.

 _"Hey,_ " I say, more softly than I meant to. _"Hey."_

 _"Angel,"_ he replies just as quietly, then he drawls, more loudly, _"You haven't travelled very far today. I do hope your leg isn't hurting you too much."_

Damn him! How does he _know_? I consider for a split second; Mycroft would have examined the place where I escaped, looking for clues, and probably saw my blood on the cut fence wire. So, he knows I'm injured, and he knows me well enough to guess that I'll try to use the bike to get around anyway; hence, he knows I can't have come far from my bolt-hole. Great. That's just great. I should have thought of that.

I glance around me at the overgrown, wild terrain, wondering if I should get out of here...then I realise that if he really knew where I was, I would already be passed out with a tranq dart in my arse. Right. More Mycroft games.

 _"Mycroft, why are my accounts still frozen?"_ I cut right to the chase. _"I haven't done anything wrong! You have no right!"_

_"I will do whatever it takes to get you to see reason. Your life is at stake."_

_"Yes it is, and that's why I'm staying away from you! Listen, if you want me to trust you at all, you need to show me some trust first. I want you to release my bank funds so I can access them."_

He makes an exasperated noise. _"You need to stop this foolishness, Angel! I can't help you if you insist on treating me like the enemy."_

_"Then stop acting like one! Prove to me that you're not!"_

_"I am trying to help you! I'm doing my best to put things right, but ––"_

_"Then put things right! Just, leave me alone. Let me have my money, and leave me alone. I'll be fine."_

_"No, you won't be fine. You need to come into protective custody."_

_"Give me my money and I'll think about it."_

_"There isn't time for negotiation, Angel! Listen to me! I need you to remain where you are, I have someone coming around for you now. Just, stay where you are. They'll take care you."_

He has someone coming for me? A shock of adrenaline flares through me: I half-rise from my seat, ready to get the hell away from here . . . then slowly sit down again. Games. He's trying to provoke me into running. If I were to take off in a panic with my mobile still on, my movements would make it simple for him to triangulate and pinpoint my position. Nope, not doing it. But, the longer I stay on the line with him, the more pings they can run randomly from other towers, looking for a match. . . . He probably thinks he's got me nailed either way. I gotta wrap this up.

 _"Bollocks,"_ I tell him. _"I'm not falling for that. Get this through your head: I'm not even going to consider coming in unless you release my accounts, full stop. Do you thi––"_

The sudden, loud noise to my left doesn't register as a gunshot right away, even though the slug opens a divot of dark earth in the path just beyond my outstretched feet; I stare open-mouthed at the little gouge as my brain grapples with the twin ideas of "bullet" and "gunshot." Then: Holy hell, someone's trying to kill me!

In a flood of rage and terror I scream into the phone, " _You fucking bastard!"_ and throw it away as hard as I can, snatching up my bike to dash down the path and throw one leg over, pedalling helter-skelter toward the park gates. There are two more loud bangs from somewhere behind me, and the whine of a ricochet off of stone. I hunch over and give it my all, the cycle helmet thumping and rattling against the spokes of the front wheel as I ram the pedals down again and again, my breath tearing in deep gasps.

I have to get out of this bloody park! There are too many places for a shooter to hide, in bushes and behind monuments . . . and the place is nearly deserted; no witnesses . . . I really set myself up, didn't I? I couldn't have made it any easier if I had tried!

Up ahead I can see the park gate, and the busy street beyond; then I'm through it and out, dodging down side-streets and skidding around corners, darting a zig-zag course that I'm praying will be impossible to follow. I have no idea where I'm going, except that it's away from the park and as fast as I can go.

Eventually I have to slow down; my legs simply can't take any more, and even though my pulse is still pounding in my ears and I'm on the verge of panic, I have to sit down. I find a corner behind a stinking skip in a narrow, deserted alley, and sink down on the dirty pavement, putting my cycle in front of me like a barricade and leaning my head against the rough brick wall, chest heaving.

The stress must be getting to me, I don't feel at all well. I close my eyes, and just focus on getting my breath back. God, this must be what it's like to be a soldier; war must be literal hell. You'd either develop nerves of steel or fold up and crawl away. Or get killed, I suppose.

I myself plan to try for the nerves of steel option, although I'd just as soon not get shot at any more.

At least now I know for fucking sure that fucking Mycroft is out to kill me: _"I have someone coming for you, they'll take care of you"_ he says, and next thing I know I'm up for target practice! Obviously, the only reason that he had his men use tranq darts yesterday was for the sake of appearances, because today, with no witnesses around, he sure as fuck wasn't having his sniper shoot darts. Those were bullets, and I'm more than lucky to be alive and unhurt.

Well, alive, not so sure about the unhurt. I swallow down a few sips of water, and try my legs to see if I can stand. Not easily, but leaning my back against the rough, crumbling brick wall for support, I force myself to rise all the way, closing my eyes against the prickle of tears welling at the deep, burning ache in my left leg; my mad flight has made it hurt much worse now, and I bloody hate pain! It's not fair that I should have gotten injured on top of everything else –– and there's not even anyone around to feel sorry for me. I've always been good at parlaying my hurts into tea and sympathy . . .

A chill ripples through me again, and I shiver hard. Damn this climate, it's the middle of August, can't we have even a little bit of summer? I lever my hands against the wall behind me to straighten up, and realise that the rough brick feels warm to my palms; it's not chilly today at all. I press a hand to my forehead; it's burning hot. I have a fever. Oh, that's just splendid, isn't it! How much more wonderful could things get? I have a psycho ex-client determined to kill me, AND a life-threatening infection. What the actual fuck.

My shoulders sag with the realisation of how much trouble I'm in. People die all the time from wounds that go septic. I need to find a doctor . . . and I'd be stupid to think that Mycroft won't anticipate that. He knows I have a deep puncture wound in my leg, and he was able to guess that I wouldn't ride very far on it today. He's probably got all the clinics and hospitals in London on the alert for a patient matching my general description and injury . . .

Okay, then, I'll just go to Sara. She's a veterinarian, she can get antibiotics, and I know she'll help me. Except that, first of all, I really, really don't want to drag her into this, and secondly, Mycroft will be expecting me to run to my sister. He'll be prepared for that. So –– what could I do that he might not anticipate?

I could rob a pharmacy for some antibiotics. Well, except I've got no weapon, and I'm no good at being menacing. Sneak into a hospital, pose as a porter or something and raid the drugs cabinet? Risky, and anyway I have no idea what medicine I should take. What I need is a doctor who's willing to work with me under the table, and who'll do it for nothing more than a smile and a promise. . . .

John Watson. He's a doctor, he was sympathetic to me, and he's already up to his ears in all this. The question is, would Mycroft anticipate that I'd go to John for help? Sherlock would have reported the bugs that he found in the Knightsbridge flat; no, not just reported, he would have gleefully rubbed it in, so Mycroft has to know that Sherlock despises me. Would he assume that John does as well? I feel that it's likely.

But can I trust John to not turn me in? And will he believe that Mycroft is trying to have me killed? From what I saw on Tuesday, he and Sherlock don't work for Mycroft, but they're not exactly working against him either. Sherlock was genuinely furious at the thought that I was helping someone spy on his brother. On the other hand, that mightn't have been personal at all; Sherlock might have been equally furious if it had been some other person in a position of power being set up for manipulation. I don't know him well enough to tell.

My head is spinning with trying to figure out what to do, and it's not getting me anywhere, so I give up on mental calculations and just go with what I know, with what my gut tells me.

I know that John probably won't believe me, but he'll help me, because turning away an innocent person who genuinely needs his help just wouldn't occur to him. And Sherlock won't turn me in, much as he loathes me, because knowing something that Mycroft doesn't will make him far too pleased with himself.

I also know that I can put up with Sherlock if I have to, in order to get John's help. Right. So, now I just need to get there. I slip out of the alley and walk my bike slowly along the pavement, looking for signs and landmarks that will tell me where I am, all the while keeping a sharp eye out for any hint that I'm being followed. So far nothing suspicious, but then I thought that the cemetery was safe, too.

Eventually I pause at a tiny food stall under a cheerful red-and-white awning to ask where I am, and how to get to Baker Street in Mayfair; I end up blowing a fiver on a hot salt beef sandwich with dill slaw because I am so hungry that the tantalising smell causes temporary insanity! The two geezers running the little place are friendly, though, and more than happy to give me cycling directions to Mayfair, as well as a review of the traffic situation along the way (horrible), the coming weather forecast (heavy rain on the way), predictions of the effect of motorway smog upon my healthy young lungs (dire), and a recommendation to take the tube instead if I don't want to die young.

I tell them that I'd lock the bike up and take the tube for sure if this city wasn't crawling with bloody bicycle thieves, although they probably wonder why I say it with a mirthless laugh. I wander over to a park bench to have a sit-down and eat. I feel a lot better after I finish the sandwich, and wonder if I really need antibiotics after all. Maybe I just need to rest and eat a bit better . . . then I run my hand over my forehead and feel how warm it is, and how cold my hands are, and I know that I need to do something. I reckon John is my best bet at this point, so I throw a leg over the bike and make my way slowly toward Mayfair.

I'm feeling worse again by the time I get to Baker Street, swaying as I knock at the door and try all three doorbells at 221. There's no answer, so I lean my bike against the iron railings and settle on the door step to wait in a sliver of sunshine, drawing up my knees under my chin and closing my eyes. I may have fallen asleep, because when a shadow falls against my face I jump nervously and look around, blinking.

It takes a moment for me to puzzle out the figure standing there, since the sun is bright behind them and my eyes are dazzled –– but it's neither John nor Sherlock looking down at me with a frown, it's the landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Great. Just what I need; I hope to hell she won't recognise me. Her frown deepens, then she makes a sudden, exasperated noise and gestures toward the door with her chin, and I realise that she's standing there with both arms overloaded with bags and parcels, and me sitting like a stump blocking her front door. I mutter an apology and pull myself up to step aside. She bustles toward the door, commenting, _"Sherlock is out right now. If you have a message for him I can take it, but don't expect me to give you any money. You'll have to collect your wages from him later."_

She stops and glares up at me, as if daring me to deny that I'm one of Sherlock's homeless network people; I just shrug awkwardly and look at my feet, trying to keep my features at least partly hidden as I quickly sidle away from those shrewd eyes. I hear the jangle of keys as she struggles to unlock the door, and she scolds, _"Well, I could use a little help here, couldn't I?"_

Damn my early training in manners! I turn to find her holding out several grocery bags with an expectant look; I can't help but reach out and take them. After I do, she gets the door open and steps in, holding it wide for me. _"Thank you, dear. You may as well bring them inside, and come in yourself, if you please. It doesn't look good, you loitering about on the doorstep."_

I shake my head, but she continues firmly. _"I really have to insist! Either you come in, or I'll call to have you moved on. Your choice."_

I should just turn and run, but I don't want to. I want to see John, but I don't want to get hauled off by the cops. Hesitating, I look over at the bike, and she follows my glance.

 _"Oh, go on and bring it inside. Park it over there, beside the stairs,"_ she waves her hand in the general direction of the stairway. _"But mind you don't dent the wallpaper! Lean it well away. And don't put it where anyone will trip over it."_

I park the bike as directed, and meekly follow Mrs. Hudson into her flat. _"Now, bring those in the kitchen for me, and have a seat to wait for Sherlock. I'll put the kettle on. I've made biscuits from a new recipe, and I'd like you to tell me if they're as awful as I think they are."_

Sighing, I go to set the bags on the bench near the fridge. Why can't people just say what they mean? Why does everything have to be cloaked in pretence that they aren't doing what they are so obviously doing? I must really look worse than I think if she's decided that I need a cup of tea and some feeding, but I'm not going to argue against kindness; I'm too knackered to argue against anything.

 _"I'm not waiting for Sherlock, I actually need to see John,"_ I admit quietly, shrugging off my rucksack and slowly lowering myself into a chair at the little kitchen table. " _Do you know when he'll be home?"_

Once again that shrewd look. _"No, I don't know where they've gotten to. They were both gone before I got up this morning, but then, I slept late. My hip was just terrible last night, I had to use quite a bit of my herbal soother to get any sleep at all..."_ She natters on and on, clattering the tea things around, avoiding looking me in the eye until she settles the cozied tea pot on the table and sets a cup, saucer, and a plate of lumpy homemade biscuits in front of me, and finally sits down herself.

 _"Now,"_ she says brightly, pouring from the teapot for both of us, and pushing the milk jug over toward me by way of invitation. _"Exactly why do you need to see Dr. Watson?"_

The question stalls into the quiet little kitchen; the only other sound is the ticking of the clock above the cooker. I fix my tea, and help myself to a biscuit, holding the other hand under my chin to catch the shower of dry crumbs. _"Mmm. Scrummy!"_ I evade. " _Two thumbs up."_

Mrs. Hudson purses her lips and slowly stirs the sugar into her cup. _"I know who you are, young lady,"_ she says quietly. _"I have a good eye for faces, no matter what ridiculous hair and clothes you are trying to hide behind. It would be a good idea for you to tell me what you're here for."_

Shit. I do not need a nosy parker right now. _"Why does it matter to you?"_ I try to keep my tone polite and neutral; there's no sense in purposefully making an enemy. _"Not to be rude or anything, but I can't see that it's any of your business, m'am."_ The tea is hot and soothing, and I wrap my hands around the fragile cup gratefully.

She raises her eyebrows, but doesn't take umbrage. _"It's my business because they're my boys, and I look after them. Somebody has to."_ Good lord, now she sounds like Mycroft!

 _"I'm not a danger to anyone, Mrs. Hudson,_ " I sigh. " _There's nothing for you to worry about."_

 _"Well, I don't mean to say that I think you're an assassin or something."_ She blows across the top of her teacup before taking a sip. _"Just because you don't mean any harm doesn't mean you won't create problems, though, and they've got enough trouble as it is! I'm not going to sit down here and let you entice . . . people away from their responsibilities. There's a baby involved, you know. Generally I don't meddle at all. Live and let live, I always say, but there comes a time when you have to stand up for what's decent!"_

I take my time processing all that as I sip some tea, then I tentatively reframe it to make sure I heard right. _"So, you think I'm trying to be . . . enticing? To John?"_

She gives me a wry look. _"Well, of course you are. He's a doctor, isn't he, barely married and already on the outs with his new wife –– a nice rebound catch for a clever working girl._ " She takes a biscuit from the plate and cautiously tastes it, making a face. _"These aren't half dry. Maybe Mrs. Turner wrote the recipe down wrong."_

 _"Good cooks rarely share all their secrets,"_ I observe, literally biting my tongue over that first remark. 'A nice catch?' What a load of bollocks!

 _"Well, she isn't that good of a cook, really, but perhaps you're right."_ There's a lengthy pause, and the woman across the table narrows her eyes at me, measuring. Finally she breaks the silence. _"You were flirting for all you're worth when I saw you here last time, all set to hook John and reel him in if you could. Now it looks like you're trying a different tactic, limping around like a sad little duckling to play on his sympathies. I'm here to tell you, that is not on. Not at all."_ She gives me a look that manages to combine gimlet eyes with an infuriatingly, genuinely sympathetic smile. _"Oh, I know how it is, you're just trying to get by, but not on my watch, dear."_

She is totally pissing me off right now, treating me like I'm some sort of wily man-eater looking for prey –– and it stings all the worse because it's not even true! _"Look, Mrs. Hudson, I'm not here to try and hook up with John! I wasn't before, either, I was . . . well, I guess I was flirting with him a little, because I wanted information, and that's the best way to get it out of a bloke, isn't it? But, damn it, I'm not like that. I'm not a –– a predator."_

 _"Of course not."_ She still looks a bit skeptical. _  
_

I hesitate, but there doesn't seem to be any other way of getting past this watchdog dragon-lady. _"I'm hurt,"_ I admit. _"I think it's pretty serious."_

She frowns at me crossly. _"Then why don't you go to the A &E, or a walk-in clinic? It's Saturday, but I'm certain you can find something open . . . ."_

 _"I can't,"_ I say simply, taking another biscuit; they really are quite dry, but free food is free food. I need to load up while I can.

 _"You can't because . . . ?"_ When I don't answer, Mrs. Hudson looks vexed, and covers it by pouring more tea. _"Are you on the run?"_ she prods.

I nod, taking up the soothing cup again. Tea really is a miracle, I'm feeling a thousand percent better than when I sat down.

Mrs. Hudson cocks her head speculatively. " _Don't you work for Mycroft? I should think he would protect . . . ."_

All I have to do is glance up, once, quickly, and her eyes widen. _"You can't possibly be on the run from him, child_!" she bursts out. _"You can't possibly. You'll never make it."_

Her lack of confidence nettles me. _"Oh. Really. Well, I'm still free, and it's been, what, four days? He hasn't caught up with me yet!"_

She gives me a pitying look. _"Then I'm sorry, my dear, I truly am, but you blew it by coming here. Mycroft has these flats under constant surveillance. You see, he keeps an eye on my boys, too."_

I sit there in shock for a moment, feeling the blood drain from my face. How could I have been so stupid? What the hell is wrong with me? Of course he would have Sherlock's flat closely watched. I knew that about him, I knew it, and I came here anyway. Oh, god. I'm dead.

But not just yet. Damn it, I'm not dead yet. Not yet. I reach across the table and grab Mrs. Hudson's hands for emphasis. _"You've got to help me!"_ I plead. _"What surveillance is on this place right now?"_

Mrs. Hudson is still sadly shaking her head when a man's voice answers my question from the doorway.

 _"None,"_ Sherlock says, throwing his coat over the back of a vacant chair and sitting down. _"There's no surveillance, because I've disabled it all. I'm being rather more particular about that right now. Mycroft's meddling is beginning to annoy me."_

Mrs. Hudson looks over at him with a fond smile. _"Sherlock! Would you like some tea? Maybe a biscuit or two?"_ He holds up a hand to refuse, but by then a cup has already been poured and put in front of him. He ignores it, instead leaning forward and narrowing his eyes at me.

 _"Four days, you said?_ " He sounds doubtful. _"If true, that would be a surprising record."_

 _"What would be a surprising record?"_ John pauses at the doorway to nod hello to Mrs. Hudson, rakes a curious glance over me, and then drags a chair in from the other room so he can join us. _"Four days of what? By the way, Sherlock, I took the boxes upstairs. All of them. By myself. You're welcome."_ Glaring, he reaches over to take up the untouched cup and saucer in front of Sherlock. _"And, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, might there be any more of those biscuits to be had? "_

Sherlock and I both kind of ignore John's entrance. _"Yes, it's true. Four days. What of it?"_ I ask.

 _"I've never heard of anyone eluding Mycroft for that long –– and in London, of all places. Well, except for me, but that's different."_ Sherlock hasn't moved his pale, disturbing eyes away from me yet; what does he see? _"He can't really be trying."_

 _"Oh, he's trying all right,_ " I don't bother to keep the bitterness out of my voice. _"He's trying to kill me. I was shot at this morning at the park, three times at least."_

Sherlock's head shifts slightly, but his eyes don't move; I don't even think he's blinked. _"Which park?"_

_"Tower Hamlets Cemetery."_

Sherlock leans back, stretching his legs out carelessly. _"Not Mycroft's people, then."_

_"Why not?"_

_"Because you're still alive."_

I glare at him. _"So you mean, nobody in Mycroft's employ would have missed? Listen, I've been around them a bit and I can tell you, they're not all that."_

Sherlock scoffs, _"In that place? With that much cover? They could practically get on top of you. It would take a near-sighted idiot with a completely inadequate weapon to miss."_

I consider that. He's actually got a point. _"The gunshots did sound very loud, like they were close . . . but they still missed me,"_ I admit. _"What do you mean by 'a completely inadequate weapon?'"_

_"A cheap and shoddy handgun, smuggled from eastern Europe. A blanks gun, retooled to fire live ammunition. An antique firearm pressed into modern service. Any of those would make a lot of noise, and be very difficult to shoot accurately. Its main use would be as intimidation."_

_"Angelica,"_ John's carefully measured voice breaks in from the other side of the table; I guess he finally recognised me. _"What the hell are you doing here?"_

Apparently, that is Sherlock's cue. " _Well, isn't it obvious, John? She's getting around on a stolen bicycle, attempting to disguise herself in stolen clothes, and squatting in the East End studio of an artist who is away on a birding holiday. Miss Talbot is looking for a new patron. You're sympathetic and attracted to her, and she has accurately judged your lack of marital satisfaction at the moment, although she's obviously overlooked your habitual lack of money."_ He casts John an arch look and adds as an aside, _"I suggest you give it a pass; you can do better."_

I'm so angry I'm not even curious how he knows that I've been staying in the East End; I'm so angry that I simply lash out in a fury. _"What is it with you people!? I'm a sex worker, okay? I'm a whore! But where do you get off assuming that therefore I'm manipulative and greedy and –– and, rotten! That is so fucking mediaeval! And you!"_ I point at Sherlock, _"You may be able to tell exactly where I am staying, and how I sleep and –– and, what I brush my teeth with, but you obviously don't know a bloody thing about who I really am, so why don't you keep your nasty, WRONG assumptions to yourself, okay?"_

There is a stunned silence following my outburst, and Mrs. Hudson clears her throat as she stands and picks up the teapot. _"Well, I think this could use a little warm-up, couldn't it?"_ Sherlock just sits, expressionless, observing me, then takes out his phone and begins to text.

John clears his throat. _"So, Angelica,"_ he says, with a long-suffering air of changing the subject. _"What ––?"_

 _"She says she's injured,"_ Mrs. Hudson offers as she crackles open a packet of biscuits and arranges them on a plate.

 _"A bullet wound?"_ John's face morphs into professional concern. _"I'm not going to be able to take care of something like that here, we need to get you to the nearest A &E."_

_"No, it's not a bullet wound! And I'm not going to hospital under any circumstances."_

_"She's on the run from Mycroft,"_ Mrs. Hudson adds helpfully.

 _"On the run from –– What, did you two have a row or something?"_ John asks; he looks boggled at the thought.

I'm irritated with all of them now, even John. _"Yeah, sure, that's what happened,_ " I snap sarcastically. _"A real domestic. So of course I had to run for my life, because Mycroft, right?"_ I push my fringe out of my eyes and reach for the milk jug as Mrs. Hudson sets the teapot back on the table.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the fact that nobody registers that as sarcastic. John just shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge the thought, and asks me, _"Okay, where and how are you injured, then?_ " and I briefly describe for him the fence wire and the wound it made, and my fever and chills.

 _"That doesn't sound good at all,_ " he agrees, frowning. " _We'll have to take a look at it right away."_ He rises to wash his hands at the sink, and I quickly stand and slip my jeans over my hips, wriggling them down to my knees, and sit back down again. I think I hear Mrs. Hudson gasp, but I give no fucks. I could be dying, right now; I don't care who sees my knickers.

As he's washing, John continues, _"Mrs. Hudson, could we use your sitting room for the examina ––"_ he turns around, and blinks several times. " _Oh. All right, then. Ah."_ Something that might be a muffled snort comes from the side of the table where Sherlock is seated; John steadfastly avoids looking over there, although a dark flush spreads very briefly up his cheeks. _"Which is it, then?"_

I roll my hips slightly to make it easier peeling the plaster off the side of my left thigh. It looks worse than this morning: the inflammation has spread wider, and gone from dark pink to scarlet. John kneels down for a close look, frowning with concern and very gently palpating the area. _"You're right to seek treatment, this has potential to get quite nasty."_ He pauses, looking up. _"You've been cycling around like this? Today?"_

I shrug. _"Yes. Oughtn't I have?"_

_"Vigorous exercise can speed up the spread of infection in a deep wound. You should be on bed-rest, in hospital, now. Anything else is just being stupid."_

_"Well, then I guess I just can't help but be stupid, but thanks anyway. Any chance you could give me some antibiotics and save my life, even if I am stupid?"_ As I'm grumbling, John stands and does the pulse-breathing-feel-your-neck thing, then he steps back.

_"Well, your pulse and respiration are nice and slow, your temperature appears close to normal at the moment, so the good news is that you're not presenting with sepsis; the infection doesn't seem to have spread into your bloodstream yet, or if it has, you've been able to fight it off so far. The bad news is, I can't do anything for you. You need to go to the hospital, Angelica! I don't keep a stash of intravenous antibiotics ––"_

_"Yes, you do,"_ Sherlock interjects absently, engrossed in his phone. _"For me, in case I suffer a sudden relapse."_

The exasperated look John shoots him clearly says, _Shut Up!_ but Sherlock doesn't notice. _"Yes, okay, but I don't know what bacteria are causing her infection, and I absolutely don't have a pathology lab stashed away!"_

Sherlock calmly looks up from his phone. _"Give Miss Talbot an injection of the most broad-spectrum one in your kit, and if she doesn't respond, we'll take her to see Molly at Barts. She would work up a quick culture, no questions asked."_

I eye Mycroft's brother suspiciously. " _Why are you being helpful all of a sudden?_ " I trust him even less than I trust Mycroft. _"What changed your mind?"_

Sherlock's mobile chirps a text alert and he checks it immediately, his eyes skipping across the message and crinkling happily. _"Because, Miss Talbot, Mycroft really is furiously trying to locate you, and that means that the game is most definitely on!"_ He busies himself with thumbing out a reply.

 _"You mean, you're going to help me just to torment Mycroft?_ " He's worse than I thought!

 _"No, not at all."_ Sherlock pockets his phone and stands up, reaching for his coat. _"I'm going to help you because you can put me a step closer to solving an important case. Tormenting Mycroft is merely an added benefit."_ He turns to John. _"Patch her up as best you can, will you? There might be some legwork to be done tonight."_


	34. "...How cheerfully he seems to grin/ How neatly spreads his claws/ And welcomes little fishies in/ With gently smiling jaws." ~ Alice in Wonderland

Sherlock breezes out of 221a, leaving the three of us to sit there for a few moments, recovering.

_"He's kind of intense, isn't he."_ I comment to nobody in particular. John and Mrs. Hudson look at each other, sharing a laugh as she stands and gathers up the tea things for washing.

_"You could say that."_ John drains the rest of his cup, then rises and offers me a hand up as well. _"Come on, then, Angelica. Let's upstairs to patch you up, like the man said."_

Before I can get my legs under me to stand, Mrs. Hudson has placed her hand on my shoulder. _"Maybe you could bring your things down here, John? Best for her to not be jogging up and down those stairs with that leg of hers! She really ought to stay down here. With me."_ Even though she says this with a kind smile in her voice, I hear the iron underneath.

I think John does, too, because his eyes flick between me and Mrs. Hudson for a beat; _"Oka-a-y."_ Then he wags a finger at me. _"I may be a little while. You're going to stay put, right?"_

I nod, and in the silence after he leaves to go upstairs, I feel like shouting, YOU CAN RELAX, I'M NOT GOING TO FUCK JOHN WATSON, OK?! But I don't think it would be much use. As Daddy used to say, 'There's no use in confusing people with the truth when they've already made up their minds.'

Well, but she's also genuinely kind; in short order Mrs. Hudson has me propped on the sofa in her sitting room, surrounded by soft cushions, with the remote for the telly in my hand. She and I chat cozily about nothing at all, and I think I can just about forgive her for having a nasty suspicious mind.

It takes John a really long time to return, and when he does it's without any explanation; he just sits down beside me with his black bag on the floor and preps a disturbingly large syringe with liquid from a tiny bottle. I start to roll up my sleeve in anticipation of the jab, but he purses his lips and re-caps the needle with a frown.

_"Angelica, I've got to tell you, this really isn't on. You shouldn't be sitting here, you should be in hospital getting comprehensive treatment. I could lose my license over this –– and much, much worse than that, if the infection gets out of control, you could suffer a permanent injury, or even die. Just consider that for a moment, will you?"_

I turn my sleeve back down and shrug. _"Look, if you won't treat me, I'll just take my chances. I'm not going to hospital, and that's that. Anyway, I already feel loads better now ––"_

He cuts me off impatiently, _"You're going to risk throwing your life away because you think Mycroft is out to get you? Can't you see how paranoid that is?"_

_"It's not paranoia if they're actually out to get you!"_ I knew he wasn't going to believe me. _"Okay, so Sherlock is probably right, it was likely somebody else shooting at me earlier in the park, but . . . look, I saw a video of Mycroft, I heard him casually offer to have me eliminated if necessary, like . . . like you'd toss out a ruined pair of shoes. I heard him, so don't try to tell me that I'm just being paranoid."_ I can feel my eyes start to tear up, but I sniffle it back and focus instead on how angry I am. _"So, loyalty, right? Bollocks. I'm not sticking around for him to decide whether or not I deserve to live!"_

I notice that neither of them jump in to reassure me that Mycroft would never, ever do that. Actually, they exchange troubled looks and say nothing at all for a moment.

Mrs. Hudson speaks up first, with a sigh. " _Well, I don't know what you were expecting, dear. I mean, he's not a very nice man, is he? You had to have known. You probably thought you could change him, though, didn't you?"_

_"Oh, fuck that!_ " Damn, I didn't mean for that to come out as rude as it did. _"I'm sorry, ma'am,"_ I continue more quietly. _"No, I never thought I was going to change him, not ever. In the business, in my business, you expect people to come and go; it's supposed to be temporary. We want to be treated with respect, but, you know, it's actually better if people don't get too attached. It's just –– I never thought I'd be considered expendable!"_

John twiddles with the capped syringe and makes a wry face. _"I could say all kinds of I-told-you-so's and that's-what-you-get's, but I don't think it would be much help, would it?_ " I narrow my eyes at him; you're bloody right there, mate! _"Right. The thing is, even though Mycroft doesn't exactly hang out around here –– and that's good, because Mrs. Hudson is right, he's not at all nice, not really ––because of Sherlock I know him, even if not all that well, but . . . I can tell you that I have never heard of nor seen him do or say anything without a very, very good reason for it. Mycroft seems more . . . careful that way than most people are._

_"So, if you you heard him say that he would be willing to eliminate you, then I would wonder why he was saying it at that moment, and who he was saying it to. And by the same token, if he did have to do it I can't imagine he'd do it lightly, or without very good reason."_

Oh, for fuck's sake! _"Well, isn't that just lovely. I'm sure that will be a huge comfort when I'm lying there with bullet in my brain, knowing that it was for a good reason!"_ My snark doesn't go unnoticed this time.

The look that John gives me is harder than you'd think his well-worn face was capable of, and his voice is harsh; _"We all make choices, Angelica, and have to live with the consequences. You're no bloody exception. Get over yourself."_

I haven't got any snappy answer for that, because I know he's right. I chose this. I look down at my hands in my lap, with the ragged, ugly nails, then back up at him. _"So, are you going to give me that jab, or what?"_

He sighs, _"Roll up your sleeve."_

He's very good with a needle; the sting from the antiseptic swab hasn't even worn off before he's putting a plaster over the spot, and reciting the possible side effects to watch out for. I wave away his concern and get to the question that has been on the tip of my tongue since Sherlock left. _"So, what's this case that I'm to put Sherlock closer to solving? What did he mean by legwork? And why was he so happy that Mycroft for sure doesn't know where I am?"_

John frowns, and takes his time putting the syringe and wrappers in the kitchen bin, and washing his hands. He's still frowning when he plops down in the armchair beside the sofa and rubs a hand over his tired-looking eyes.

_"Legwork is just another way of saying fieldwork,"_ he says, then stops.

_"I figured as much,"_ I say encouragingly. _"What about the case? What is it?"_

John stares off into the distance for a bit, making some interesting faces as he thinks. Finally, he looks back toward me with a sigh. _"Well, I suppose . . . Right. So, the thing is, Sherlock believes that Mycroft has been . . . compromised by a very clever blackmailer. For quite some time, actually. When Sherlock first met you, he was certain that you were a willing accomplice. Now, though, he thinks you're just being . . . manipulated, by several people. We discovered that the cameras in the Knightsbridge flat were put there by ––"_

_"Evan McCutcheon."_ I blurt out, taxed by John's hesitations. _"I went and talked to him that night after you two broke into my flat."_

_"Oh! Well, what did you find out?"_

_"More than I bargained for!"_ I admit. _"McCutcheon is ex-CIA, completely mad, and has a personal vendetta against Mycroft. He made me steal the Torch code book so he could sell it to terrorists, and get Mycroft blamed for it!"_

John's face goes from surprised to shocked. " _That was you? You're McCutcheon's operative?"_

_"NO! I'm not his operative! I mean, yeah, I took the code book –– they would have killed me otherwise –– but I got away from them after, and found a way to return it safely."_

I can tell that this information is making John mentally re-arrange a few ideas about me. Good.

_"So, what does this blackmailer want from Mycroft? Money?"_ I ask.

John shakes his head. _"I don't think it's that simple. He seems to want influence, and . . . well, amusement."_

_"Amusement?"_ Okay, that's weird.

_"He seems to enjoy making important people… dance. And it's escalating, he's reaching higher and higher."_

_"Dance? What do you mean, dance?"_

_"Make them do things you wouldn't think anyone would bother with, nonsensical things. Like, making Mycroft attend a wedding last month ––"_

_"I saw that! I was there, at Stoke Park. He was miserable."_

_"You were invited to that? That's an interesting coincidence . . ."_ John says slowly.

_"Hey, before you go off on a deduction, Sherlock junior, let me tell you I wasn't invited; I crashed the party because I was stalking Mycroft at the time."_

John bursts out laughing. " _Stalking Mycroft? Why on earth were you –– oh, never mind!"_

Mrs. Hudson is laughing at me as well, and I'm quite sorry I opened my mouth about Stoke Park. Whatever. I lean my head back against the sofa, feeling a mild wave of nausea, probably from the antibiotic. I swallow it back, thinking over what John has said. It's kind of hard to imagine Mycroft being manipulated by someone else, but I guess even puppet masters can have masters. I wonder what this bloke has on Mycroft. It must be good. _"So, where do I fit into this? And the Torch? And my friend, Steen?"_

John shakes his head. _"I don't know. Sherlock hasn't told me everything yet, he never does until the case is closed –– and even then he only ties it all up nice and tidy for me if he wants to show off how clever he is."_ No rancour at all in John's voice; that's just how it is, apparently. _"I do know that the escort agency you work for is definitely owned by the blackmailer, and he is definitely using you girls as part of his network."_

Girls? I nearly start in at him over that, but now is not the time; I have better things to worry over than John being patronising. _"You know, Sherlock said that, and so did McCutcheon, but I still don't see how it could work! I mean, if that sort of thing was going on, word would have gotten out and nobody would use the Agency's services any more. People are bound to get just a bit suspicious if you blackmail them with sex tapes featuring your escorts, aren't they?_ "

John shakes his head. _"I don't think it's actual recordings, Angelica,"_ he says. _"More like personal secrets, embarrassing little things, kinks, vulnerabilities –– "_

_"But I was never asked for any of that! And Steen worked for the Agency for ages, and he never mentioned it to me; he was the kind of friend who would have, too. He didn't hold back._ " Even as I am saying that, I know it isn't true. He held back plenty, I was just too naive to see it.

_"It sounds like someone has found a way to collect gossip,_ " comments Mrs. Hudson. _"The old gossip mill, grinding away."_

_"Sherlock has heard an 'online treasure trove' mentioned,"_ John adds.

_"An online treasure trove?"_ Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

_"What? What is it?"_ I can tell he's concerned by my alarm.

_"I'll show you. Mrs. Hudson, do you have a computer I could borrow? With an internet connection? Please?"_ I ask.

_"Just a minute, I have a little netbook you can use."_

She returns from the bedroom with a tiny, bright pink laptop, and proceeds to boot it up. I joke with her while we're waiting, _"Don't worry, I won't look at your porn!_ "

Her lips purse in a sly smile. _"Oh, there's just a little light reading on this one, dear. My porn is on the other computer with the bigger screen_." John clears his throat, blinking rapidly.

It seems like forever, but she finally hands me the netbook, commenting that it's already online. I immediately go to the escorts' forum to log in.

Curious, John asks, _"What's that?"_

I motion him over. _"You can look over my shoulder, I don't mind, not for this._ " John sits close by me on the sofa to lean over my left shoulder and, not to be excluded, Mrs. Hudson claims the spot over my right. " _This is a secret forum for the Agency's escorts. It was founded about five years ago, I guess, and I'm the current admin. "_

John points at the title of one of the most popular boards. _"What's 'Johnspotting' mean?"_

I crane my neck sideways to look at him, and we're almost nose-to-nose. He has a nice nose. " _It's when you recognise a client out in public and learn their real name and title and position, or can guess it. See, the Agency is all about anonymity, or it's supposed to be. Nobody uses their real names, neither the clients nor the escorts, and we're not supposed to ask or be told personal details. Of course, everybody does, and when you service the rich and powerful like we do, who can resist bragging about it? This is our safe space to brag, and whinge and moan, too. Or, it's supposed to be a safe space."_ I look at the screen glumly. _"I'm not so sure. What if that blackmailer had access to this forum? If he runs the Agency, he would know which escorts are meeting with specific clients . . . and he could pair up especially chatty escorts with particularly important clients._

_"The sorts of details you were mentioning, John, the little kinks and quirks and secrets . . . there's all kinds of dirt on people in here. I never thought that it could be used against anyone, not really, because like Mrs. Hudson said, it's all just gossip. No proof."_

John rubs his chin, and I'm close enough to hear the scrape of five o'clock whiskers against his fingers. _"You wouldn't need proof if the gossip were accurate and embarrassing enough. Just the threat of having it exposed would suffice. Most people would be too frightened to call the bluff."_ He gives me a look that manages to be admonishing, encouraging, and stern all at the same time. _"That forum needs to go away."_

Damn. I was afraid he was going to say that. I don't want this responsibility! I wanted to know what's going on, but I didn't want to have to make decisions about it! Maybe that's why they say that ignorance is bliss . . . what was it that Sherlock said? "If ignorance is bliss, she lives in ecstasy." Yup.

The problem is, once you know, you can't go back. Whether the blackmailer is digging around in there himself or one of the escorts has sold out, I don't know, but I feel like I have to do something.

I go to the admin settings page, and find the "Delete this forum" button so I can glare at it. There's a lot of good information and advice and camaraderie here, but it's nothing that couldn't be found elsewhere as well, without the risk of innocent people getting hurt. I take a deep breath and hit "delete," and then confirm it twice more. And it's done.

I shut down the computer and look up into John's lopsided smile. " _That was hard!"_ I tell him. " _Really hard. And it's too little, too late, you know? That douchebag has probably already downloaded all the information I just deleted."_

_"Probably,"_ he agrees, _"But at least there won't be any more."_

_"Until someone starts another forum. I hope Sherlock can shut this creep down before then._ " Feeling very low, I hand the little computer back to Mrs. Hudson.

Out of the blue, another wave of nausea hits me, and a cramp in my lower gut. _"I need to use your loo, Mrs. Hudson, like, right now!"_

She points the way down the hall, and I'm off like a shot. It's just the usual, what you expect from a dose of strong antibiotic, and the cramps pass once everything else does. Since I'm in there anyway, I take the opportunity to unwrap the binding from my chest and give my poor little titties a break, as well as unpin the sock-roll from my knickers. Might as well be comfortable.

As I wash my hands, I check myself out in the ancient mirror hanging over the basin, and ruffle around my pink-orange hair with wet fingers. I look kind of tired, not really surprising after the past few days! It's a relief to not feel like I'm on my own anymore . . . but I don't feel like I can completely trust these people. I suppose that's because I know it's really Sherlock's show; he's the alpha in this little pack. That's not a bad thing, I guess, because somebody has to, right? But . . . I can't ever see him being comfortable around me. I'm always going to remind him of things he'd rather not think about.

Speak of the devil: Emerging from the loo, I find that Sherlock is back. He's planted in the doorway, still wearing his coat, and the sound of conversation halts suddenly as I come down the hall. I brush past him to take my place on the sofa, and as I pass he thrusts a bulky, zippered gym bag at me.

_"Hey! Careful!"_ I catch the bag against my middle and, sitting down with a curious glance at Sherlock's perpetually smug face, open it to have a peek inside. It's full of . . . clothing. My clothing. From Barry's flat. He broke into Barry's flat! I'm speechless, staring at the tangle of my worldly goods crammed into the zippered bag. For fuck's sake, who does he think he is?

_"I took the liberty of retrieving your belongings for you,_ " Sherlock says nonchalantly, _"From the state of your hair, you had access to artist's ochre and were desperate enough to try colouring with it. Your borrowed hoody is embroidered with the logo of the UK 400 Club, and therefore belongs to a dedicated twitcher who is very likely on holiday with his club –– they organise rare bird outings every August, don't they? Very convenient. If you were in Tower Hamlets Cemetery this morning, and early enough for it to be still nearly deserted, then clearly you have been squatting someplace a short distance away, so it was a simple matter to identify your unwitting host and locate his flat."_

I'm torn between admiration and being totally furious. He went through my stuff, damn him! But, that's pretty impressive, to figure it all out. Damn him.

_"Look, if you had asked, I would have told you, you know? And I could have just given you the key, you didn't have to break in!"_ But, then he couldn't have proven how very clever he is, could he? Uh-huh. I let it go. _"Okay. Why did you bother fetching my clothes and stuff, anyway?_ " I can't imagine he'd put himself to any trouble just to be nice to me.

_"Fancy clubbing tonight?"_ Sherlock asks me a little too brightly. _"I have a bit of work that might be right up your alley."_

John frowns. _"I don't know, Sherlock. That leg_ ––"

_"Oh, Angel's right as rain, aren't you?"_ Sherlock is giving me a smile that quite reminds me of that poem in "Alice in Wonderland" about the crocodile welcoming the little fishes . . . .

_"I can be, if I need to be,"_ I tell him. _"But, just, stop smiling at me, okay? I'll take honest hatred over fake nicey-nice every time."_ He shrugs, and lets the false smile fade; interestingly, his eyes never change.

John picks up his valise from the floor and snaps it closed. _"Where?"_

_"The Bacchanal,_ " Sherlock tells John with a flick of the eyebrows. _"I'd like her to have a chat with someone."_

_"At a strip club?"_ John looks from Sherlock to me and back again.

_"The element of surprise,"_ says Sherlock. _"I need a piece of information from a punter who frequents that club. The proprietor of The Bacchanal owes a favour to me, a big one, and has agreed to substitute Angel here for one of his dancers for the evening."_

_"What? Look, I can't just ––"_ There are so many reasons why that is a bad idea!

_"Why not?_ " Sherlock frowns. " _This punter hires a private table and dancer and a bottle of champagne nearly every Saturday. He's made a reservation for tonight. It's perfect. You'll substitute for the girl who was scheduled, giving you an entire hour to gain his confidence and extract a very small, but vital, piece of information from him. You get the dance fee and tip, I get the information."_

_"That's not . . . I can't do that."_

Now he looks fully annoyed. _"Why not? I should think it's a simple enough task, even for you."_

_"And it's a dickish idea, even for you!_ " I snap back. " _First off, it's a shitty thing for me to take another person's gig away from them. And, there's the tiny detail that I'm not a stripper! I'm an escort. Different skill-set."_

_"I have it on good authority that you dance quite well,"_ Sherlock says blandly.

Whose authority, I wonder, and were they at Verge that night . . .? Hmm. _"I can, like, dance on a dance floor, but stripping is an art, and it takes practice, and it takes ––"_ Oh, I hate admitting this! " _It takes way better boobs than I've got, okay? Trust me, nobody is going to take me seriously as a stripper. The situation would have to be pretty dire for me to even try."_

Sherlock starts pacing around the tiny sitting room, hands in pockets, his coat sweeping behind. _"What if I were to tell you that this was an opportunity to help rid the world of the man who ruined your life?"_

Wha –– ? Mycroft? No! He's got to be talking about someone else. _"I would say that I don't really consider my life ruined, so I don't know who you mean,"_ I reply carefully.

Sherlock suddenly swoops toward the sofa and leans close to me. " _I mean Charles Magnussen!_ " he hisses. _"One of the most vile creatures alive. This regular customer of The Bacchanal is the architect who designed Magnussen's home, Appledore. I need to know where the full blueprints for Appledore are, the real ones that include the underground vaults_." He throws himself into the armchair by the telly with a scowl. _"I need someone with your . . . skill-set."_

I set my bag down on the floor between my feet. _"I'll give it my best, if you'll tell me how this Magnussen is supposed to have ruined my life."_

_"You won't like it,"_ he warns me.

_"I'd listen to Sherlock, if I were you, dear,_ " Mrs. Hudson chimes in. " _If Sherlock says you'd rather not know, he means it."_

_"I want to know,_ " I insist stubbornly.

Sherlock leans forward, elbows on his knees. _"Then, I'm very sorry,_ " he says, although he doesn't sound or look the least bit sorry. " _I have some more bad news for you about the late Steen Dijkstra. He was no friend to you, not at all. He wasn't just another rent-boy working for the Agency: He was one of their chief head-hunters, recruiting young prostitutes who met specific criteria, by any means necessary. You were one of his recruits."_

It's so silly, I have to laugh. _"Um, sorry, no. You're wrong,"_ I shake my head. _"Steen helped me get a job when I was down and out, you know? I was at the end of my rope, and Steen threw me a line. He helped me get into escorting, but I sure as hell don't consider that ruining my life!"_

_"And why were you 'down and out'? You flunked out of uni, eventually got a reasonable job. . . then lost it rather unexpectedly, didn't you? It was a bit of a blow?"_

_"Yeah, that was rough."_ Actually, it was horrible; I had just started that sales job and turned out to be very good at it, and had begun to think maybe I could pull my life out of the pit . . . then, wham! I came in to work one day, and they told me I was sacked, just like that. " _Pretty brutal,"_ I admit.

_"Aaand, your boyfriend threw you out the same day, just as suddenly, for no apparent reason. . . "_

It doesn't really surprise me that he knows this stuff; I mean, the bloke is a detective, right? It's his job, and he's obviously good at it. " _Okay, so you're implying that those two things are linked?"_

" _No, I'm not implying anything,_ " Sherlock says. _"I'm telling you that Dijkstra was directly responsible for you losing your job and your flat within the space of a day, and then, when you were completely desperate, he befriended you, patched you up, and convinced you seek another job . . . with the Agency. I don't know how much they paid him, but I imagine it was worth his while."_

What!? _"You are full of shit, you know that? Full. Of. SHIT!"_ I cannot believe this smug arsehole is sitting there spewing this. _"Do you have nothing better to do than go around making up lies and hurting people? What the actual fuck is wrong with you?"_

John holds up a hand, and tells me in a calming voice, " _Angelica, if Sherlock says that's how it was, then ––"_

_"Then he can still be fucking WRONG!"_

_"Except that I'm not."_ Sherlock leans back in the creaking, shabby armchair. _"Think! You lost your employment and relationship on the same day, without warning. What is the probability of that?"_

_"Shit happens,"_ I spit. _"You're only telling me this so I'll help you get the information about Applecore! You'd say anything to get my cooperation."_

_"Appledore. It's called, Appledore. And, if all I wanted was your cooperation, I'd simply offer you more money. That would be incentive enough to enlist your help at the moment, wouldn't it? But knowing that Magnussen was the one who manipulated you and destroyed your chance to build a normal life, that enlists you as an ally, not just an employee."_

_"You're a manipulative git! Why the hell would I want to ally with you?"_ There's a long silence, and I avoid looking at any of them; they're all a bunch of arseholes.

But. . . what if he's right? Sherlock is a huge cock, but he's no muppet, and he's been right about a lot of things so far. _"So, you think that Steen only pretended to be my friend so he could groom me to work for the Agency and help them snare . . . Mycroft?"_

Sherlock shifts around in the chair uncomfortably. _"Yes."_

I shake my head. _"I still don't buy it, okay? I can tell the difference between real friendship and bullshit, and Steen really cared for me."_

Mrs. Hudson quietly offers, _"Maybe it started out one way, and ended another? Hearts are funny things."_

_"Well, if it's true, if they paid Steen to recruit me, it wasn't a very good investment; Mycroft certainly isn't snared. Nobody has anything on him because of me, he said so himself."_

_"And you believed him?"_ Sherlock sneers. _"Your naiveté isn't charming, it's pathetic. Mycroft's recent actions are proof that he's compromised, and you are the only possible pressure point."_

I shake my head again. _"Nope. Sorry, but no. It's not me. It's you, Sherlock. If he has a pressure point, it's you."_

He laughs hard at this –– not fake-laughing, either, real belly-laughing. " _That's ludicrous. You have no idea, really you don't. My brother does absolutely everything out of duty, obligation, and a pathological sense of propriety; he has never shown the slightest sign of being affected by . . . familial sentiment."_

" _And you believed him?_ " I sneer. Ha! Gotcha, arsehole.

It's hard for me to read Sherlock's expressions; I don't know him, and he and I just don't click, but his face seems to cycle through looking annoyed, then thoughtful, then . . . frightened?

Then his expression smoothes out, and he asks me evenly, " _Will you do it?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Excellent!"_ He leaps to his feet, and begins issuing marching orders. _"We leave in three hours. I recommend that you wear your red La Perle lingerie, Angel, with the black stockings ––"_

_"Really? Red and black? Isn't that a –– well, a bordello kind of look? Anyway, the red set is obnoxious, I only packed it along because it's, you know, La Perle. I usually split the pieces up to wear with other things. . . "_

_"No,"_ Sherlock says firmly. _"Wear the La Perle set. The trend these days is toward pastels, so a bold statement is going to stand out and pique his jaded palate."_

_"But what if he's looking for comfort and reassurance, more like a mashed-potatoes kind of experience? The Fleur pink satin is a safer bet, I think; not as luxurious as the La Perle, but it's less likely to overwhelm him. And the suspenders have those adorable little embroidered butterflies . . . "_

_"You will just have to trust my judgment on this, Angel! The red ––_ "

_"I'll tell you what,"_ John's irritation whips over Sherlock's voice, _"I'll tell you, why don't YOU wear the red La Perle, Sherlock, and Angelica can wear the pink butterflies, and then you'll both be happy, all right?"_

_"Really, John!"_ Sherlock scolds, then smiles just a little. _"You know red isn't my colour."_

John makes an exasperated noise and retreats upstairs, shaking his head. Smiling, Sherlock watches him go, then turns to me. _"Definitely wear the red. With black stockings. And over it, the black polyester wrap-front skirt––"_

_"I don't have a black poly skirt."_ I poke through my clothes in the bag at my feet. " _Do you mean the ruched silk?"_

_"It's not silk."_

_"Yes it is."_ I pull out the garment in question. "S _ee? Label says '100% silk.' Which top do you think with it?"_

_"The black-and-white op art. And the skirt isn't silk, it's polyester. Deliberately mis-labelled. You should buy better quality."_

_"I put my money where it counts, into the lingerie,"_ I retort. _"The rest of it doesn't usually stay on long enough to matter."_

Sherlock looks thoughtful. _"I suppose not."_

_"Mrs. Hudson, can I occupy your bathroom for a good while? I'm a complete wreck, it's going to take hours to get ready."_ I check in the bag, and it looks like Sherlock cleared all my things out of the bath at Barry's; my soap, razor, and other whatnots are in there –– and my stash of condoms as well. Shouldn't need those tonight, but a few of them are going in my handbag anyway. You never know.

_"Too bad we can't do anything about your hair,"_ Sherlock adds helpfully. _"It's hideous, but there's no time to get you to a salon and repair the damage."_

_"Hideous? I don't think it's that bad . . ._ " I protest. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock look at each other.

_"You know, I could pop down to the corner shop, pick up some peroxide and a box of hair colour, and be back in a jiffy,_ " offers Mrs. Hudson. _"And then help with, you know, applying it. It would be fun._ " She gives me a big smile, and Sherlock pats her approvingly on the shoulder.

_"Excellent idea, Mrs. Hudson! The oxides won't all come out, so make it a brownish dye, to cover the pink. Something plain and dull. What colour do you use on yours? That would do nicely."_

Mrs. Hudson and I look at each other. _"How do you put up with that?"_ I ask her. _"I mean, really."_

_"Some people are worth it, my dear. And some aren't._ " She smiles fondly at Sherlock, who is ignoring her in favour of sending a quick text.

_"Right. We leave at half seven,"_ he tells me, pocketing his mobile. _"Be ready!"_

_"That's awfully early for a Saturday night, isn't it?_ " I ask, but it's to the thin air because Sherlock has already hurried off. I feel like making a rude noise after him, but I restrain myself and settle for a sigh. _"There's nothing wrong with pink hair, you know. It can look really cool."_

Mrs. Hudson bites her lip as she looks at my hair. _"Not that shade, dear. The customer sounds like he might be conservative; an architect, right? So you don't want to be too outlandish. What colour dye would you like? They don't have a big selection, but I should be able to find something nice."_

_"Oh, whatever, I don't care._ " Actually, I do care quite a lot, but since she's buying the dye we have to do that complicated dance of "How about this one?" "Well, no, actually" until she understands that I want it to be some shade of red; she promises to bring me "something ginger-ish."

Mrs. Hudson's tub isn't spacious by a long shot; either it's even smaller than Sara's or else I've gotten spoilt by the luxury of living in Knightsbridge. Still, I can fold enough of myself into it to feel like I'm getting a nice hot soak. I don't have time to loll around, really, but shaving and pumicing will be easier if I let the water soften me up a bit. I toss in a handful of lavender bath salts to help it along, closing my eyes to drift in the fragrant steam.

Oh, Steen. Did you really fuck with my life so I would work for the Agency? If you did, does it matter? I'm not unhappy about how my life turned out at all; Mrs. Hudson is right, hearts are funny things.

I don't think Sherlock was lying; in fact, I know he wasn't. My gut tells me he was being truthful, as least to the best of his knowledge. He could still be wrong, mind, but he wasn't lying. But it didn't have the effect that he thought it would; I don't hate Steen. Hell, I don't even hate this Magnussen, although I think he's a slime-ball who needs to be stopped. I hope Sherlock can do it.

I hear Mrs. Hudson coming back from the shop, so I grab a flannel and start scrubbing. Three hours later, we have got me silky-smooth and polished again, with an acceptably human shade of hair colour –– and in the bargain I know quite a bit more about Martha Hudson's life than I really want to, but that's okay; most of it is actually quite interesting, especially the parts where she married a drug lord and lived in America, although those are also the parts that she's very cagey going into detail about.

Sherlock and John come down to collect me at exactly half past seven, and Sherlock makes me do a turn around the room before nodding his approval, although he pronounces my new strawberry blond hair colour "garish." Mrs. Hudson and I exchange a little smile, because that is exactly what she predicted he would say.

John checks in with me and has a look at my temperature and pulse, even assessing the injury on my leg through my stocking. As he gently prods the spot, I tell him it's feeling much better than it did earlier today, and he notes that the swelling is greatly reduced. I don't mention the continuing uproar in my stomach that made me pass up the light tea that Mrs. Hudson tried to feed me a while ago; I reckon I'll grab a late supper when we get back.

We hit our first snag when John opens the outside door; it's damp and bloody freezing out there! Well, okay, not freezing, but it isn't warm, and I'm barely dressed. Sherlock insists that Mrs. Hudson borrow me her dress coat, but, really, she's nearly a foot shorter than me. I look ridiculous.

Practically snarling with impatience, Sherlock bounds upstairs and returns with a tweedy, ragged thing that turns out to be one of his own old, worn-out coats. Apparently, he never throws them out when they get shabby; they get retired to a carton and packed away.

The coat smells fusty and has a few mysterious stains here and there, but at least it more or less fits and keeps me from getting a damp chill while we look for a cab.

The Bacchanal is only in Covent Garden, and honestly, I think we could walk the two miles in the time it takes us to find a cab and ride down there –– except that I'm wearing some serious spike-heeled Pleasers, which are not exactly hiking boots. After the three of us finally pile into a black cab, Sherlock briefs me on the gentleman I'll be entertaining: The architect's name is Michael Swinhar, from Gloucester. He's 55, married, and in the throes of what Sherlock calls "a typical mid-life meltdown."

Great, another one –– although you could hardly call Mycroft "typical" in any way, so I guess it isn't really. Sherlock explains that Mr. Swinhar has been a huge success in the world of high-concept architecture until recently, when his star became eclipsed by younger rivals.

_"So, you're telling me that I need to stroke his ego?"_

_"You need to stroke anything you can, including his ego."_ Sherlock replies, and I hear something from John that's either a cough or a short laugh, not sure which. _"The information I need seems a minor thing, and I need you to make sure that you act as if it is minor, Angel. Don't over-emphasise or badger him about it. But! We have to know where the detailed, complete building plans for Appledore are kept. Ideally, you would convince him to show them to you, but I would settle for knowing how and where they're stored; I can figure out access later."_

We make it to the club well before half past eight, which is when my appointment with Mr. Swinhar is to start, and Sherlock takes us around to the club's back entrance. We're met by a very posh but somewhat nervous young man whom Sherlock introduces as Arthur, one of the owners. He shakes John's hand with a how-do, but only looks me over with smile. " _Nice!"_ he says to Sherlock, _"Very nice._ "

_"Very pleased to meet you too, I'm sure!"_ I snap at this Arthur, although his smile doesn't falter. Stupidity often makes people immune to sarcasm.

Arthur leads us through the back rooms of the club, stopping along the way to introduce me to the security staff as the temp dancer who will be entertaining Mr. Swinhar in the Ambrosia Room this evening.

The security bloke who's supervising the floor tonight looks like every other bouncer I've ever seen, large and bald, except that he's got a nicer uniform than they usually have, and he seems even denser between the ears than most. He looks at me, and then at Arthur, and asks, slowly, _"Will there be a problem with the camera tonight in the Ambrosia Room?"_ Arthur looks even more nervous than before and stammers that he doesn't know, looking between John and Sherlock.

This is mildly annoying to me, since I'm the one most affected, but whatever! Sherlock tells Arthur, _"Oh, yes, I believe so. Very definitely, there will be a problem with the camera."_ Arthur nods at the bouncer, who nods at him, and the four men all nod knowingly at one another, completely ignoring . . . Never mind, I'll just stand here and be beautiful.

Arthur leads us onward toward the main floor, walking beside John and chattering at him about how temperamental some of the dancers are, and how much trouble they've been giving him of late. Gee, Arthur, could it be because of the way you treat them?

Sherlock drops back to lean close to me and murmurs, _"The law requires CCTV cameras ––"_

_"–– in every so-called private dance room, so they can make sure nobody touches anybody, because if they do that makes the club a brothel and that's illegal. I know, I've been in strip clubs before, as a guest. I imagine that the anticipated camera problem means that it'll be turned off while I'm with Mr. Swinhar?"_

_"Yes."_ Sherlock gives me an intense, meaningful look. " _You can take this as far as you want to. Just get the information."_

_"Just make sure that camera is off, and stays off!"_ I tell him.

We eventually reach a pair of grand double doors that open out on to the main floor, which is a lot like any other classy, cozy, brass-and-fern pub, except for the stage that takes up the wall opposite the bar. It has three gleaming brass poles spaced along it, although only one is occupied at the moment; we really are here very early in the evening. The DJ booth is empty as well, and canned pop music throbs from the huge speakers at either side of the stage where the sole dancer struts and spins.

We may be early, but the place isn't completely dead; I have to smile at how John's demeanour changes the instant we are under the scrutiny of several undulating, attractive females in various states of undress. He becomes both wary and distracted, while Sherlock's focus seems to narrow to a laser beam. " _Swinhar isn't here yet,"_ he says, scanning the sparse crowd.

_"Mr. Swinhar always arrives on the dot and goes directly to his VIP room,"_ Arthur comments to Sherlock. _"Maybe, instead of waiting in the dressing room with the other girls, it would be better if your dancer waited for him there? The girls aren't too pleased about this last-minute substitution; as a matter of fact, some of them are absolutely hostile about it!"_

I don't blame them for being hostile, but I'm just as glad to not be on the receiving end of it. Before following Arthur, I shrug off my borrowed coat and ask John if he wouldn't mind; he folds it over his arm and reassures me, _"I know you'll be fine, Angel, but just in case, we'll be at a table close by. Good luck!"_

_"I think I can hold my own against a middle-aged architect,"_ I smile, " _But, thanks anyway._ " Sherlock seems to have wandered off, so I tuck my little black handbag under my arm and trail after Arthur toward a panelled oak door at the end of the bar.

He opens the door to usher me in, pointing at the engraved brass sign on it: "'Ambrosia Room'" it says, "If open, please do not disturb!"

_"Just the opposite of the usual, right?_ " a smile twitches across his thin lips. _"Law says private dances have to be in rooms that are open to the public space at all times, so you must leave this ajar after Mr. Swinhar gets here, all right? Go on in."_

That's one way to deal with the silly laws, I suppose. Other places I've been in use curtains for the same effect, and I see that they use that here, too; heavy red velvet is swagged across the doorway for another layer of privacy. I hear Arthur close the door behind me.

The little private room is very definitely VIP. There's a long, plush sofa and armchair with a drawered end-table between, and a low mahogany coffee table bearing a bottle of champagne nestled in its bucket with two glasses. No tacky mirrored walls here, but there are artfully placed gilded mirrors to achieve the same effect, letting the occupants see everything from multiple perspectives.

There is also a blatant CCTV camera in a high corner, with a sign under it advising you that this is a CCTV camera, just in case you were from outer Mongolia or something and didn't know what one looked like.

There's an iPod sound system on a short bookcase in the corner, and I check out the playlist; just about anything you could imagine is there, from screechy baroque violins to screechy heavy-metal guitars. I feel like classical piano, nice and mellow, so I line up a few things that I like and let it play, figuring that Swinhar can change it if he cares to. I stash my handbag in the top drawer of the end-table; with a new client, you never leave your valuables in sight.

The discreet clock on top of the bookcase shows exactly 8:31 when I hear the door open, but not close, and the red velvet curtain is swept aside.

I hadn't bothered asking what Mr. Swinhar looked like, largely because it really didn't matter. After escorting for a while, you learn not to fuss about a client being handsome or ugly; hygiene becomes SO much more important than looks! I had some fairly low expectations, given that this bloke is pushing sixty and in a sedentary occupation––

––but I'm not prepared for what comes walking into the Ambrosia Room right now. Lord have mercy, the man is fit! Of medium height but an exceptional build, his broad shoulders ripple with toned muscle under a simple, white collared shirt as he carefully hangs his jacket on the coat tree. When Mr. Swinhar turns his classically handsome face to look at me, the laugh lines around his dark brown eyes crinkle in a delighted smile.

_"Well, hallo. You're new. They told me at the door that I might have a different girl tonight; they didn't mention that I was getting an upgrade!"_

_"Angel. I'm Angel,_ " I babble, even though he hasn't asked my name. _"Hi."_

He tells me to call him Mike, and sits beside me on the sofa at a respectable distance. Over the first glass of champagne, I flirt shamelessly, he flirts excessively, and the champagne roars right through my empty stomach and straight to my head, so much that I'm having trouble concentrating on words.

Sometime during the second glass of champagne, Mike decides that the piano music is a little boring, and he gets up to put on some sexy R&B. When he sits down, he is closer to me than before, close enough that I can smell his aftershave. It smells really, really good, and I lean in toward him, inhaling deeply.

_"Oh, my god, you smell great! What are you wearing?"_

Mike laughs. _"Isn't that supposed to be my line?"_

" _Maybe. I don't care."_ I smile wickedly, _"It's fantastic! What is it?"_

_"Floris Elite,_ " he says, running a hand through his thick black hair, dashed with silver threads. _"My wife gets a bottle of it for me every Christmas."_

_"That's nice of her,"_ I say, and then try desperately to change the subject, but Mike is off and running, giving me the Married Man's Litany of Guilt.

They all seem to have to do it, these married men who cheat on their wives. They know they're being shits, and they know that I, a woman, will judge them for it. So, they have to explain how they are Actually Not Cheating At All.

Mesmerised by how delicious he smells, I ignore the words coming out of his mouth, leaning closer and closer until my nose is filled to the brim with the heady aroma of expensive men's cologne and soap and … Oh, shit. Mycroft. He bloody smells like bloody Mycroft.

Mike eyes me cautiously as I abruptly draw back. Shit, I'm letting myself get distracted, and it's making him wary. So what if he smells like Mycroft? It just means they wear the same same cologne. Do your little song and dance, Angelica, get the information, then get out. I lean over and put my champagne flute down on the table.

_"I need to slow down with the bubbly here; I'm not used to it, and I think it's gone straight to my head!"_ I give Mike a sweet, slightly drunk smile, and he relaxes.

From the topic of wifey-poo I manage to wrestle the conversation around to worky-poo, and from there to past triumphs. Mike's eyes shine with pride when he recounts all the buildings he has designed, especially what he calls his "sculptural residences," naming Appledore as one of them.

We're so close, but then the bastard changes the subject, saying, " _Hey, that's enough about me! How about a dance, eh?"_

Oh, yeah, that's what we're here for, isn't it? I toddle over to the sound system and, since Mike seems in the mood for R&B, put on Joe Cocker's "Leave Your Hat On." I strut and sway for him, giving it all I've got, and Mike seems to be eating it up. His face is lit up with delight and desire, and I can see an impressive bulge rising under the zip of his jeans. As the song comes to the last suggestive chords, I end by straddling across his lap, my knees planted into the cushion on either side.

In alarm, Mike glances at the CCTV camera. _"Aren't you getting carried away?"_

_"Well, they call it a lap dance, don't they?"_ I slowly gyrate my hips in the air bare inches above his thighs. _"Besides, I'm barely touching you,_ " I add, resting my hands on his upper chest and lightly kneading the smooth, taut muscle there. " _Right now, at any rate."_

His eyes flicker again at the camera. _"Are you trying to get me into trouble or something?"_

I shake my head, letting my arse drop a little lower with each gyration. My leg is a lot better now, but it's still sore as hell when I use the muscles, so I lightly settle my arse on his thighs, grinding subtly against that provocative bulge. " _No, really I'm not. I just heard how hot you are, and paid the floor supervisor a little extra to make sure the camera wasn't working tonight."_ I turn my head a little to the side, coyly. _"Please don't be angry. I'm just really lonely, I need someone…"_ As I say it, I know that's the truth. At the very least, I'm horny as hell right now, and I want this lovely man in any way I can have him. _"We can do whatever you like, nobody will know."_

_"No._ " He says firmly.

_"What?"_ I can't believe it. " _Why?_ "

_"I told you, I come here because there's no touching, so I'm not tempted to… you know, be unfaithful. I just look and talk, and that's enough._ " He smacks my bum, kind of hard, and says, " _Off, you!_ "

I clamber off of him, my long legs flailing awkwardly, and one of my spike heels kicks over my champagne glass from the coffee table. It doesn't break on the thick carpet, but a dark stain spreads where it landed, and I feel tears spring into my eyes. Stupid. I'm utterly stupid, and useless to boot.

I sit on the far end of the sofa and hug my knees up, trying not to break out into a crying jag. Oh, this is a disaster, just a fucking disaster.

Mike blots up the spilled champagne with a napkin, then slides across the sofa to reach over and pat my hand. _"Hey, now, it's okay! I'm not cross with you, Angel. I'm not. That was a really nice dance you did, I liked it. One of the sexiest I've ever seen! You've got some great moves._ " I smile wanly through my sniffles. _"That's the girl. Let's talk some more, okay? What do you want to talk about?"_

_"I want to hear more about your sculptural residences!"_ I blurt out. _"They sound so cool. Tell me about Appledore."_

So, while I sit there snivelling, Mike Swinhar tells me all about Appledore, the nautilus-shell inspiration for the design, the drawing up of the plans, and it's the most natural thing in the world for me to ask if he ever takes the plans out to look at them sometimes and admire his work, and he tells me of course he does, although it's a bit of a hassle to do it, since the disks with the really special bespoke plans like Appledore are in the floor-safe in his Soho offices and he's not there all that much these days. He talks and talks, because he feels bad for making me cry, and I dry my eyes and think maybe I'm not such a disaster after all.

It proves a premature conclusion. The door is open, and the curtains don't make any noise, so when the two constables walk into the room Mike and I are both completely stunned. My veins go icy for a heartbeat and I feel my jaw drop in shock, as Mike gasps loudly, his face flushing a deep beetroot-red.

The older cop, who seems to be in charge, tells Mike, _"You may go, sir. In fact, I suggest that you do_." She turns to me: _"You, young lady, are charged of soliciting for prostitution. Put your clothes on, please. You are under arrest."_

_"But I never!"_ My eyes flick up to the CCTV camera of their own volition, and the junior officer pats the hip pocket of his jacket with a grim smile.

_"We got the recording. You're done."_

Mike looks from me to the constables, his face still flaming, and goes for his jacket. " _I'm sorry,"_ he mutters as he slides into it and does up the buttons, but I'm not sure who he's saying it to.

_"You've nothing to be sorry for, sir, YOU didn't break the law,"_ the older cop says primly. _"Go home, sir. And miss, if you don't put on your clothes, I will be forced to take you in wearing nothing but those little red knickers. Get moving."_

I pull my skirt and top on slowly, my brain racing. Should I run, or let myself be arrested? A first offence of soliciting will only get me a caution, no jail time, so I should be in and out of the station quickly ; I wouldn't even be much concerned, except for bloody Mycroft. I can just leave my identification hidden with my handbag in the drawer, and give a false name, but the minute they run my fingerprints I am done for.

Too late to run now: They've lost patience, and my arms are roughly pinned behind my back, the handcuffs snapped on my wrists. God, I hate metal cuffs! So damned uncomfortable. As the constables escort me from the VIP room, I crane my neck to see if I can spot a friendly face in the curious crowd outside, but there is no sign. John? Sherlock? Where the hell are you?


	35. "You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed." ~ Antoine de Saint-Esupery, "The Little Prince"

So much for John and Sherlock staying nearby, damn them! They probably ran off the minute the cops showed up.

The people in the bar seem divided between staring at me being hauled along, my hands cuffed behind me, and the screaming row that has erupted over by the stage; that commotion attracts the attention of both the officers holding my arms. They exchange an anxious look, then stop pulling me forward in favour of evaluating the drama over there, probably wondering if they need to intervene.

It looks like Arthur and one of the dancers are getting into it, and there is a third cop standing between them. Arthur is shouting, "Do you know what you've done, you stupid cow! Do you have any idea what you've done? They're going to shut us down now!" and the dancer is shouting back that she doesn't fucking give a fuck, this place can go to fucking hell. It looks like the lone policeman over there is the only thing keeping Arthur from launching himself at the dancer's throat.

 _"I think Dale could use a little help over there,"_ says the policewoman holding one of my arms. _"Take this one to the car, load her in, and wait for me. Let's see if we can defuse this before it gets ugly."_

The young male officer tugs my elbow to get me moving again as the other cop goes to help keep Arthur and the dancer from doing each other bodily harm. Okay, so it's down to one. Could I take on one? Not with my damned hands cuffed behind my back and wearing wobbly six-inch heels, I don't think so.

The commotion by the stage starts to edge into a full-scale scuffle, with several more almost-nude dancers getting involved, and the young cop holding me turns to look again. Someone runs by us toward the brawl, dodging through the crowd, and he careens too close to the cop holding my elbow, knocking into both of us. The cop slams sideways into me, and the impact topples me against a table.

 _"Sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't see –– Are you all right?"_ The running man grapples the cop to keep him upright, and the officer staggers, straightens up, brushing the man's hands away.

 _"Watch where you're going, there!"_ the cop shouts at him, and the man grovels appropriately and slinks off, obviously embarrassed; except that I can tell that he's not embarrassed at all. It's Sherlock, and god only knows what is going on, but at least they haven't ditched me.

I peer around but can't spot John at all; Sherlock has melted away now, too, and the cop pulls me upright again and on my feet to steer me toward the door, and the stream of customers headed for the exit –– officers in uniform at a strip club tend to make people nervous, even if they aren't breaking any laws at the moment –– the stream parts to let us through, and we are out the classy brass front doors and down the wet steps down to the puddled pavement, toward the police cruiser parked in front of the club.

And I have to work hard not to let a big smile show, because John comes trotting over, calling out, _"Constable! Constable!"_ The cop grips my arm tighter, and turns toward John.

 _"What!"_ He barks, and John halts a a respectful distance away, acting all out of breath.

" _Sorry, I caught them at it, but they ran off too fast for me to catch!"_

_"Who? Caught them at what?"_

_"Some kids, young punks, they were hanging around this police car! I'm afraid they might have let the air out of one of the tyres or something, but I can't really tell in this light."_

_"Oh, for god's sake!_ " the cop drags me with him as he goes around the car to look at the tyres; sure enough, one of them is almost completely flat. He says a few choice words about young people today, then asks John, _"Will you give a statement? Interfering with police property is serious business."_

_"I imagine that it is! Of course I'll be happy to give a statement. Whatever you need."_

_"All right, then, first I have to assess the damage, if there is any . . ."_ he flashes his torch around the tyre for a moment, while John and I exchange quick, conspiratorial smiles. _"No puncture, so they didn't knife it; looks like they just let the air out of the stem valve._ " He sighs, shakes his head, and stands up. _"Kids. All right. I can take care of this myself, there's a portable compressor in the emergency road kit. You,_ " he says to me, firmly moving me against the car, " _You will stand right here, in this spot, and you will not move."_ I don't offer any sass or resistance; I don't see any point in either. I watch John out of the corner of my eye for cues, and he is completely ignoring me.

 _"You, sir,_ " he says to John, _"I need you to stay right where you are until I'm finished repairing this flat; after I take your statement, then you'll be free to go._ " He leans a bit closer to John, adding, " _You wouldn't mind helping me keep an eye on her would you?"_

 _"Not a bit,_ " John answers, and the cop claps him on the shoulder.

 _"Good man,"_ he says, and starts to rummage around in the boot for the compressor. Once the noisy little machine is going, and the officer is down by the tyre holding the hose onto the valve to inflate the tyre, John leans just a little closer to me.

 _"This wasn't planned,"_ he murmurs, very quietly.

_"I didn't think so."_

_"Sherlock will have got the recording off of this one,_ " he nods ever so slightly toward the cop wielding the chugging air compressor, _"So they've got no evidence. Admit nothing. We'll have you out in the morning."_

 _"But the morning will be too late!_ " I whisper to John. _"Mycroft . . ._ "

I swear to god that John rolls his eyes. _"Oh, for ––_ " But then he really looks at my face, and relents. _"Okay, we'll get in touch with Greg tonight._ " I assume he means Lestrade. _"I'm sure he'll have you out in a couple of hours. Did you get the information?"_

_"Did I ever! It'll all be on the recording."_

_"Good girl. Remember, you don't admit anything, to anyone, right? Especially, god forbid, to Mycroft."_

_"Okay, but what ––"_

The compressor chugs to a halt, and the officer rises, brushing his knee. He raises an eyebrow at John. " _If it were me, I should think twice before chatting up someone like her, sir."_

John sniffs. _"Well, I'll say good evening to anyone. Even someone like her. Just being polite."_

The officer doesn't venture anything more, just puts the compressor away and takes John's statement about the band of delinquents who supposedly let the air out of the tyre. When he leaves, John makes a point of wishing a good evening to me as well as the cop, and fades into the shadows of the street lamps.

It starts to drizzle again, and the damp cold gives me a shiver. _"Can I get into the car, please? I'm not exactly dressed for the weather."_

 _"I suppose not."_ He has to switch the cuffs around from my back to front for me to get in, and in the seconds that my one arm is free I consider taking him on. I could manage it, I think, but it might make the trouble I'm in deeper than I know. Do I trust Sherlock and John to get me out of police custody before Mycroft knows I've been taken in? I guess I do, because I let the cop have my wrist again and lock the cold metal around it once more.

I must still be a little buzzed from the champagne, because I nod off sitting there in the car, leaning my head against the hard window beside me. Eventually the older cop climbs into the driver's seat and slams the door with a _Woof!_ and the two officers look at each other with a laugh. _"Wasn't this supposed to be a quiet night?"_ she says. " _Didn't I hear the sergeant tell you it was going to be a quiet night?"_

 _"Wrong, again!_ " they say in unison, and chuckle some more. On the short drive to the Charing Cross police station, the two chat like I'm not even there about the raid they just did. Apparently one of the dancers called in a vice complaint shortly after I started my session with Swinhar, alleging that some of the VIP rooms weren't being properly monitored and that there would be "irregular activities" taking place. When the cops arrived they made the security bloke turn the camera on.

Well, no wonder Arthur was so angry, but I don't think that dancer would have done it if she hadn't had enough of being poorly treated; she probably was so pissed that she didn't care if the place went under.

Getting arrested is one indignity that I've managed to avoid up til now, but there's a first time for everything, I guess. It's a good job that I don't expect to be treated like a human being in police custody, because I'm not. I'm photographed, fingerprinted, stamped and processed with attitudes that vary from indifferent to disdainful, and the whole thing feels strange and distorted and almost completely unreal to me. I give my real name, because after thinking it over, I don't want the additional charges of falsifying information on top of everything else, but I honestly don't know what to say when asked for a home address; I just shrug, and the weedy-looking Custody Sergeant purses her thin lips and marks me down as "Homeless." I suppose so.

It isn't until I'm perched on the concrete bench of the tiny custody cell that I start to feel like anything is real. The bright orange stripe that runs around the beige tile walls is strangely cheerful, although the cell smells strongly of disinfectant. I guess that's better than some things it could smell like.

I flop over onto the clammy blue plastic pad that sort of covers the bench. At least my gut has stopped churning from the antibiotic, although at the moment it's cramping with hunger. I wish I had a cigarette right now; a smoke would be just the thing. Damn. There doesn't seem to be much of anything for me to do but wait for Lestrade to come and get me out. I curl up, listening to my stomach growl.

'Admit nothing,' John told me. 'God forbid, especially to Mycroft.' Why would it matter so much if Mycroft knew what I had been at The Bacchanal for? John went to an awful lot of trouble to talk to me privately, and I don't believe it was just to reassure me; it felt kind of like that message was the important bit. Admit nothing.

Bloody hell. If Mycroft actually is compromised by Magnussen, then he may well be interfering with Sherlock's investigation –– which would explain why Sherlock was so pleased to realise that Mycroft wasn't tracking me: I could be sent to get the information from Swinhar. Well, bully for Sherlock, then. I hope that recording he nicked has some answers for him.

I hear voices echoing in the hall outside my cell door, loud ones. I sit up, straining my ears and hoping that it means someone is coming to release me. A moment later, though, I realise that it's just some drunk-and-disorderly being brought in for the night. They put him in the cell next door, and all is quiet again; he probably passed out right away. I lie back down, this time falling into a light sleep.

I'm waked by a gruff male voice outside my door that sounds familiar to my hopeful ear, growling on about police regulations: bless your cotton socks, Detective Inspector Lestrade! Eager to get the hell out of this place, I sit up and run my fingers through my cropped hair, and adjust my skirt. If I play it right, maybe I can get him to buy me a bite to eat after getting out of here, and a ride back to Baker Street.

The hatch on the door slides open, and the narrow face of the Custody Sergeant peers through for a moment, then the lock makes a loud, metallic clunk as the door is opened. There are two men standing in the hall behind the small figure of the Sergeant; a middle-aged male officer in regular blues who isn't Lestrade, and . . . . ohshitshitshitshit.

Mycroft.

My face flushes with surge of heat, although I'm not sure if I'm embarrassed or furious or what, exactly, and for a moment I can't breathe; I freeze like a wild animal caught in torch-light.

The officer who isn't Lestrade scowls furiously at Mycroft, grating, _"I'm going to report this, you know; I don't care what your security clearance is."_

Ignoring him completely, Mycroft slips between the two officers and into the cell, turning around to instruct them, _"Close the door, but do not secure it."_

 _"But, regulations!"_ the Sergeant objects. _"Sir, we can't ––"_

I can't see Mycroft's face, but he doesn't have to say a word for both cops to glance nervously at one another. _"Close the door, but do not secure it,"_ he repeats softly.

The Sergeant swallows nervously. " _Sir, you ought to be using the monitored interview room ––"_

 _"No,_ " he replies patiently.

 _"Sir,"_ she tries again; I have to admire her pluck in facing him down. " _Sir, the Humane Treatment statutes require supervision of all questioning. I have to remain ––"_

_"Out in the hall will suffice."_

She opens her mouth to argue the point some more, but the other officer grabs her by the shoulder and pushes her ahead of him into the hall, pulling the door shut behind them.

Mycroft turns then slowly toward me, planting his umbrella between the burnished toes of his brogues. It occurs to me that I should be flattered; he's wearing the grey pinstripe suit. Isn't it a complement when an opponent dons their best armour?

I don't trust myself to stand, so I stay where I am and take a deep breath. He's not going to kill me, not right now, not like this, so I don't have anything to be terrified of at the moment. Just chill, Angelica. Chill.

Mycroft still hasn't looked at me directly, and now his eyes rove around the cell, making a show of taking in my surroundings, his silent assessment more of a critique than any verbal thrashing could be.

Finally, he lets his gaze meet mine. _"Soliciting, Angel? Really."_ His soft voice drips with scorn and disappointment.

I won't betray John and Sherlock by telling the truth. I could, but I won't. _"A girl has to eat."_

Mycroft frowns at my glib reply, tilting his head slightly down, and the harsh shadows of the cell's single light-bulb reveal dark creases under his eyes. _"It wouldn't have come to that, if you could manage to follow simple instructions . . ."_

 _"Do as I'm told, you mean. Be obedient. Be good. Do the good ones get to stay alive a little longer, then?"_ If he's going to corner me like this, he's got no right to expect that I'm going to be nice about it.

 _"I was never going to harm you,_ " he admonishes. _"You were never in any danger from me."_

 _"That's not what I heard,_ " I snap. _"I heard something quite different."_

_"It's not what you think."_

_"Then what is it? Because I heard that I can be controlled, and, if more convenient, eliminated. That's what I heard."_

_"Those may be the words that you heard, but the context. . ."_ His voice trails off; he slides his eyes down to gaze at the cracks in the painted concrete floor, and I see his cheek briefly bulge with his tongue being caught between his teeth. _"Well, the context doesn't matter, does it. I doubt that it would make much difference to you, even if you could grasp it."_

I feel my cheeks flush again, and this time I know it's anger. _"Look, what do you want? Why are you even here? I gave you back the book, why don't you just leave me alone and stop bothering me?"_

A hit, a palpable hit! Just for a second, as he raises his eyes to mine, I see a flash of real anger; then it's gone, smoothed over with bland arrogance. _"I'm here to offer you protection, if you're not too foolish to take it."_

The laugh that bursts out of me is a little louder for the tension in the room, but it's genuine nonetheless. _"Protection? What? Like I'd be safer with you, for fuck's sake!"_

_"Oddly enough, yes. Events have been set in motion--"_

_"Which of course you can't tell me about --"_

_"Naturally,_ " he agrees smoothly. _"But until the scenario has played out, it is quite dangerous for you to remain at large. I believe you experienced a taste of that this morning?"_

 _"Yes."_ This morning at the cemetery park seems so long ago! Like another lifetime; but I remember the terror of being shot at _. "I guess I did. Who was after me?"_

The furrow between his brows deepens. _"That is a stupid question. I don't indulge stupidity."_

 _"What?"_ God, he is so annoying! _"Why is it stupid?"_

_"Because you already know the answer. You're being obtuse."_

And you're being a dick, but there's no use pointing it out. . . _"I'm not a ballistics expert, Mycroft. I've never held a gun in my hand, I've only ever seen a few––oh!"_ The handgun Lena flashed at me in the car park; it had been bulky, ugly, badly-machined. Sherlock was right, the shooter in the cemetery park this morning had been using a weapon that couldn't hit a sitting-duck target. . . _" McCutcheon's driver, Lena. Did your people get her?"_

Mycroft doesn't deign to look pleased, but his frown vanishes _. "Yes, of course. But there are others."_

Others. . . of course, he could be lying. But, I have a feeling he isn't. " _What sort of protection are we talking about?"_

 _"I believe relocation would be the best for all concerned. We can provide that, but nothing comes for free, you know. You will have to earn it._ " He looks down and idly twiddles with the umbrella handle in his long fingers, saying to it, _"There is a small, useful task you could accomplish more easily than anyone else, and with less risk. Once completed, you will be permanently re-settled in a safe location. It's what you want, isn't it? A fresh start?"_

_"Yes. Yes, I do –– but, I'm not interested in working for you, Mycroft! Not even doing a small, useful task. I'm done, done, done! So you can just forget about it."_

_"Oh, dear,_ " he says to the umbrella, very unconvincingly. _"Well. Then, that's that, I suppose. I should warn you, however, that you will find the full extent of the criminal charges against you are considerably more than just soliciting for prostitution: Breaking and entering, destruction of government property, theft of confidential documents. More. A competent solicitor, if you can find one, might be able to get your sentence reduced to somewhat less than a life term. Somewhat."_

A real arsehole would have smiled unpleasantly at me as he looked up, but Mycroft's gaze is perfectly blank, cold and remote. If he were a real arsehole, I could rail and rage against him, but how do you rage against a glacier?

 _"You are an utter turd,"_ I tell him matter-of-factly.

He looks askance at my vulgarity, but doesn't comment on it, continuing instead, _"If it makes your situation any more palatable, the little task is under the direction of MI6, and not my department."_

_"What is your department, anyway?"_

_"I really couldn't say."_

There's a long silence as we eye each other. _"What's this 'little task'?"_

_"Since it's not under the auspices of my department, I'm not at liberty to say."_

_"What assurance do I have that I won't be just disposed of after I do it?"_

_"None at all, I'm afraid,"_ he says, without a trace of regret.

Lovely. I get to choose between blind obedience, or rotting in prison; isn't that grand. However, it occurs to me that if they're going to kill me, in prison I'm a sitting duck; at least if I'm on the outside, I have a fighting chance no matter what.

 _"Okay,_ " I tell Mycroft grudgingly. _"Okay, you win. Happy now?"_

 _"Ecstatic."_ He carefully hooks his umbrella over one arm, and takes out his mobile, tapping out a text as he speaks. _"MI6 will send someone to collect you shortly, and you will be released into their custody. The charges against you will be dropped after you perform the required task, and their relocation team will handle your removal to a safe zone."_ He pockets his mobile again, then turns away and reaches toward the door.

 _"So, that's it?"_ It seems terribly wrong to end on this note, so . . . businesslike. Impersonal. I want to say. . . I don't know what, something that has closure. Something profound and memorable, but I don't know what.

Mycroft pauses, looking down. I see him half-turn his head, take a breath –– but then he quickly pulls the door open and steps out into the hall. The lock clunks heavily as the door is secured, and I hear his footsteps echoing away.

Sitting alone in the tiny cell, I feel very small. The drunk next door wakes, and begins pounding on his door with a hollow booming, shouting thickly that he needs to go home and feed his cat.

I'm not sleepy any more, so I sit and stare at nothing. Relocation to a safe zone. I wonder what the British Security Services would consider a safe zone? Someplace abroad, maybe, but I can't imagine where.

What could the small task be? I have an ugly thought: what if the "small task" is likely to get me killed? Wouldn't that be so extremely convenient? I mean, what an elegant solution, getting me to take on a suicide mission.

After what feels like a long time, my dispirited musings are interrupted by more footsteps echoing in the hall. I wonder what these MI6 blokes will be like? They'll probably just be more suits, like Davies and Brown. I'm going to demand that we stop and get some takeaway and a packet of cigarettes before I'll go anywhere, and no cuffs, damn it.

The Sergeant doesn't bother peering through the hatch window this time; she unlocks the door and pushes it open, closely followed into my cell by a very rumpled DI Lestrade. It lifts my spirits to see him there, and I can't help but smile, even though he looks horribly tired and cross.

Lestrade gives me a careful, close look, probably judging my current mental and physical state so he knows how to deal with me, then turns to the Sergeant. _"Ah, can I have a minute alone with the suspect, please, Gwen?"_ he asks her. _"I have a few confidential questions. . . . "_

The Sergeant looks at me, then at Lestrade. _"Are you sure, Greg?"_

_"Look, I wouldn't even ask if it weren't important! You know me."_

_"Yeah, that I do."_ She sighs, resigned. _"Okay, I'll be outside in the hall."_

When the door is closed, Lestrade puts his hands in his pockets and steps a little closer to me, looking regretful and shaking his head. _"First off, you should know that I can't get you released, or even moved to another facility. I'm very sorry. Security Services has you flagged already, and there's not a bloody thing I can do about it."_ He squares his shoulders, steeling himself for me to cry, carry on, get angry, whatever, but it doesn't happen.

 _"Yes, Mycroft was just here,"_ I say calmly. " _It's fine, everything is fine!_ " I hasten to add. I don't want the DI to feel bad for not getting here first. _"We talked, and it's all good. Will you tell John and Sherlock that? I'm fine."_

Lestrade doesn't seem at all happy about that. " _They said you were very, very concerned. Utterly terrified, in fact, which is why I left ––"_

 _"And I can't thank you enough, Inspector! I really can't. If I had been able to notify you that things weren't as dire as I feared, I would have. I'm very sorry that you were put to any trouble._ " I make my best contrite face.

He runs a palm over his stubbly cheek, sighing deeply –– then chuckles like someone who has had a very long day, and is laughing because he refuses to cry.

 _"Okay, then. Okay. Any chance you could tell me what's up?"_ he asks without a trace of hope.

_"Nope."_

_"The buzz up there,"_ he points up at the ceiling of the cell, _"Is that your arresting officer misplaced a piece of evidence related to the raid you were picked up in. Care to elaborate?"_

_"Nope."_

Lestrade sighs. _"Right. So, did I totally waste my time coming here?"_

 _"Well, it made me feel loads better, seeing you,"_ I offer.

 _"Glad to be of some small service, then."_ He sounds only a little sarcastic. " _Good night, Miss Talbot. And, ah, good luck."_

_"Thanks."_

After Lestrade leaves, I hear him chatting for a few minutes with the Sergeant out in the hall. I do feel a little bad about him coming out here and using his connections for nothing, but it makes me marvel at Sherlock's sway over people; the DI obviously came posthaste because Sherlock asked him to. Now, that's power.

By the time there are footsteps outside again, I'm reduced to literally twiddling my thumbs with boredom.

I watch the door eagerly as it opens, and the Sergeant enters, looking like she has Simply Had Enough. _"Well, here we are AGAIN,"_ she sniffs at me. _"Maybe I should put up a red light for you? And a revolving door? Perhaps a more comfortable bed?"_

I'm not insulted; actually, the image makes me giggle. _"I wish! I'd much rather be making some money instead of talking to these fools for free!"_

Two men in dark suits brush past the Sergeant into my cell; one of them turns to her and says, _"We need ––"_

 _"–– a few minutes alone with the suspect?_ " she asks crossly.

The suit looks perplexed. _"No, ma'am. We'll need the transfer of custody forms, please, and any personal effects she may have been brought in with."_

Chagrined, the Sergeant nods and mutters, _"Yes, of course,"_ as she ducks out.

I stand up, looking expectantly at the two men. " _No handcuffs,"_ I warn them. They look at each other. Bastards were going to cuff me, I knew it.

 _"But, miss ––_ " one of them starts.

_"No cuffs."_

The one who seems to be the leader says, _"Miss, it's the regulations, you have to . . ."_

 _"Bugger the regulations. No cuffs."_ I'm not sure why this seems a hill worth dying on, but damn it, I am not giving in.

Leader-suit takes a pair of cuffs from his pocket and hands them to me. _"We have to at least look like we're following procedure, miss. Would you put them on yourself, please, as loose as you'd like?"_

Okay, so they're willing to work with me. I ratchet the cold metal over each wrist loosely, like he suggested; I can slip them off anytime I want to.

There is a small sheaf of paperwork that has to be filled out and signed by the agents before they are allowed to escort me from the station, and I wait awkwardly in the Custody Sergeant's office, pretending that she and her assistant aren't looking me over and trying to figure out why there is such a fuss being made over a garden-variety whore. To be honest, I'm still not sure myself.

Outside the police station, as Leader-suit opens the car door for me, I ease the cuffs off my wrists and hand them to him before sliding into the back seat of their silver saloon. " _Now what?_ " I ask, buckling my seatbelt.

_"We're to take you to the dormitory. You'll be sent for and briefed tomorrow morning."_

_"A dormitory?"_

Leader-suit shakes his head. _"No, THE Dormitory. It's a block of flats in Vauxhall maintained as a security zone for the department's . . . guests."_ He turns his head to look back at me. " _You are still under arrest, Miss Talbot. The charges against you haven't been dismissed or erased yet."_

 _"Oh. That._ " My stomach growls loudly, with an uncomfortable cramp. " _Is there food in these guest flats? Because I really need some supper!"_

The suit driving nods. " _The flats are provisioned; there will be food in the freezer, and a microwave for you to use."_

Well, as long as it isn't tinned beans or spaghetti, then I'll be able to handle it. " _What about clothes and stuff?"_ I ask them. _"I don't exactly have my luggage with me."_

_"Your handler will have seen to that."_

_"Handler?"_

Leader-suit smiles. " _That's what we call the coordinators who manage floaters like you."_

This is like falling even further down the bloody rabbit hole! _"Okay, next stupid question: Floaters?"_

 _"No genuine question is stupid, miss; it may be ignorant, but that's a curable condition."_ I'm starting to really like this Leader-suit bloke. _"Floaters are civilians recruited for a single mission or specific purpose, and not formally trained or employed by the department."_

Okay, so I'm a floater for MI6 now. Well. I wonder how you'd list that on a CV?

I'm trying to phrase another question when we stop in front of a nondescript block of flats; it's nondescript in that same way that the research facility was: "These are not the flats you are looking for. Go. Away."

The driver stays behind the wheel, but Leader-suit gets out, and lets me out of the car. As he escorts me into the front door of the building, I notice that the place only looks average if you're not really looking. There's a card-swipe required to even get in the front entry, and a finger-print scan to get through the inner doors. There are several armed security guards casually standing around in the foyer, and CCTV cameras everybloodywhere. Not exactly your typical residential building.

We stop at the front desk, where there is more paperwork to be filled out. The woman behind the desk smiles at me, but hands the key-card to Leader-suit; apparently, I don't get one. Seeing my look, Leader-suit tells me, " _You'll be in the top floor for now, which is the most secure area. You won't be able to leave your rooms on your own. The lower floors are minimum-security, and residents there come and go as they need to."_

I look around curiously. _"Who lives here?"_ The lobby is government-issue bland; everything, including the sparse decorative touches, is beige. Nice, but beige.

Leader-suit takes my elbow and steers me toward the lifts. _"Like I told you, this place is for the department's guests. I doubt that you'll be here very long."_ Hmm. I'm starting to feel like I've traded one custody cell for another, but at least this one is a bit more posh.

My whole body shudders when the lift bell goes Ding!, but other than that conditioned response I am able to get in and out of the lift without so much as a flutter. I suppose I ought to thank Mycroft for that. Bloody Mycroft.

We get out at the fifth floor and it's as beige as the rest of the building, as is the flat that Leader-suit opens for me. He waves me inside, saying, " _There is a telephone for you to use, Miss Talbot, although this floor can only ring through to the front desk. If you need anything, dial zero and wait for one of the staff to answer."_

 _"Room service?_ " I ask hopefully. He shakes his head, and closes the door behind me.

I take a quick look around the rooms I've been provided: A narrow single bed, small kitchen, tiny bath, and tinier sitting room. The windows are discreetly equipped with metal grille work, not quite bars, but very obviously preventing any exit. There's a telly, of course, and I switch it on for a few moments, then off again; silence is better than that nonsense.

There is a stocked freezer and a microwave, as promised, and I make a good late supper of it, then go into the bedroom and poke around some more, opening the clothes cupboard just to look inside.

It's filled with stuff. My stuff. All of it very neatly set on hangers, and underneath some cartons and. . . my sex-toy box, lock still intact.

Bloody hell. Someone brought down all my belongings from Knightsbridge. Damn.

It's not very late yet, but I'm completely knackered and decide to go to bed anyway. Laying alone in the dark, I feel. . . I don't know what I feel. I feel a little lost. A little found. In transition. Seeing Mycroft today was really hard, harder than I would have thought. He seems to have moved on. What do I mean, moved on, though? Moved on from what? I'm being stupid. My last thought as I'm drifting off to sleep is, I wonder what he almost said, before he left my cell. I guess I'll never know.

The phone rings loudly right by my ear, and I jump awake with a gasp. Sunlight peeps in through the curtains, dappled by the metal grilles behind, and the phone on the bedstand keeps ringing and ringing and ringing...

I answer it just to make it stop. The voice on the other end is insanely chipper. _"Good morning! This is Alex Hubbard, I'm your departmental liaison! This is your wake-up call, we have an appointment at half nine for your physical examination! I'll be up to collect you in forty-five minutes."_

 _"Right. Ah. Okay._ " I'm not even half awake. _"Wait, why do I need a physical?_ " I almost can't talk for yawning.

 _"Well_ ," There's a little pause and I swear I can hear this Alex Hubbard on the other end smile. _"They want assessments, you know, for drugs and level of fitness ––"_

 _"I'm not on anything._ " I snap irritably.

 _"Wouldn't matter if you were!_ " he –– he? I think so –– replies cheerfully. _"You're a floater, but they still need to know. So, after the physical, you'll be briefed, and then we can get you set up with your kit and travel arrangements. Now, off you pop, get your shower and some breakfast, I'll be up in forty-two minutes."_

Forty-two minutes? Okay, I guess these people count their time a little more carefully than I'm used to, I need to remember that.

I'm still munching on a bit of toast when I hear a knock at the door –– and I laugh out loud, because there's no doorhandle on the inside, so someone knocking at it is just silly.

The knocking comes again, and I call out, _"Come in, for goodness sake!"_

The bloke who enters is wearing a classy blue suit and a big smile. He's not much older than I am, and a full head shorter than me, kind of elfin, with a head of carefully tousled black curls. He holds out his hand and shakes mine enthusiastically. _"So glad to meet you, Angelica! I'm looking forward to working together."_

I'm on the alert for any sign of a hustle, but he seems genuine, if a tad bit enthusiastic. I decide to just match his tone and attitude; why not? _"It's a pleasure, Alex. Thanks for coming up, I'm almost ready."_ I down my last bite of toast and drops of tea, then spread my arms wide.

 _"Am I dressed all right?"_ I ask _"I'm feeling a little insecure today."_ I had a hell of a time, actually, picking out an outfit; what do spies wear?

He takes a half-step back and eyes my look. _"The leggings are fine, the spike-heel boots are great. I'm not thrilled with how tight your shirt is, but the blue print suits you, brings out your eyes. However, your hair colour is quite flat, and the cut isn't very professional._ " Alex spreads his hands. _"I can give you more critique, if you like, but we really don't have time for it."_

 _"No, ah, that's okay."_ Ouch, I don't think I'll be asking him anything more unless I really mean it. _"I just don't know what's expected here, you know?"_

His gamin face turns unexpectedly serious. _"The main expectation is that you'll do as you're told. Rule number one, follow orders! All the other rules just elaborate on that one._ " Then the smile is back. " _That doesn't mean you can't argue and sass and object and suggest, though –– I do, all the time! Sometimes they even listen to me. Time to go, now."_

Alex has a car waiting out front, and drives us the few blocks to the SIS building. The whole while he is chatting constantly, but he's so clever that I really don't mind. It's not like he's flirty or anything; to be honest, I think he's either gay or ace. Whatever. He's very likable, but I'm not going to take anyone or anything at face value around here.

It's Sunday morning, but the grounds are by no means deserted. I've seen the building before, of course –– how could you miss it? –– but I've never hung out much in Vauxhall, and certainly never gone right up to MI6 itself; it's bloody imposing, as I suppose it's meant to be. Alex takes us to the huge multilevel carpark next to the SIS, and we go through several security checkpoints before being directed to a parking space.

The carpark lift takes us underground to the main building entrance, and more security checks –– including a body search! They take security pretty bloody seriously here. After I've been discreetly poked and felt up thoroughly, then we take another lift to go even FURTHER down. _"Alex, how far down does this building go?_ "

 _"I honestly don't know,_ " he tells me. " _I don't think there are many people who do."_

Our first stop is for my visit to the medical wing for physical assessment. Alex deposits me in a waiting room and scarpers off someplace, and when they get to me I'm given a thorough physical exam and another jab for my leg; the doctor says it's healing well, which I could have told him because it quite nearly doesn't hurt to walk now.

Alex collects me after my exam, and he seems a little nervous now. His smile is a bit too wide, his banter a bit too forced. . .

 _"So, what's next?_ " I ask him as we head down the corridor together. _"And why does it have you spooked?"_

He does a double-take up at me, and nods. _"Well, I did hear you were fairly sharp. I guess that's another rumour proven true."_

 _"Rumour from whom? What other ones are there?"_ I ask, but Alex won't say another word on the subject. Actually, he refuses to say another word at all, until he steers me into a posh, wooden-panelled office. There is a young PA, very pretty, sitting behind a desk and tapping away on a keyboard. She stops and smiles up at Alex when we enter, obviously happy to see him. _"Working the weekend as well, are you? No rest for the wicked, I suppose."_

 _"I'd tell you to speak for yourself, but I know for a fact that you are!"_ Alex grins at her fondly and glances at the clock on the wall above us. _"We're a bit early."_

_"They're already at it. He said to go on in when you arrived."_

_"All right, then."_ He gives the PA a lord-help-us sort of look as he straightens his tie. _"Wish me luck!"_ he begs, and she gives him a heartfelt smile, rapping her knuckles sharply on the polished teak of her desk.

Alex cups my elbow again, pulling me toward an imposing set of double doors at the far end of the room, but I balk stubbornly. " _Why did you ask for luck? Why are you nervous? Who is in that room?"_

He halts and says to me in a low voice, _"Look, it's no big deal, right? It won't make any difference for you_."

I don't alter my stance or my expression; I just wait him out, immobile, and finally he caves. " _Okay, okay!"_ he whispers. " _I found out that one of the people in there is. . . well, it's hard to describe his position to someone who's not in the department, but he's like, my boss's boss. And he's a really hard case, so my career is quite unexpectedly a bit on the line today."_

_"Oh! Wow. Do you want me to talk you up in there?"_

Alex blanches a little. _"No! No, that's fine. Just . . .be calm and relaxed, right? Like you are right now. That's perfect."_

_"But I'm totally nervous as hell right now!"_

_"I know you are,"_ he reassures me, " _And they will, too, but what matters is how well you're able to stay chill despite that."_

 _"Oh, I can maintain through pretty much anything. I'm a professional._ " Alex gives me a wan smile, and I let him steer me through the doors of the conference room.

Maintaining turns out to be more of a challenge than I thought it would be. There are three very government-looking men sitting at one end of a long, polished table; one older, grey-haired and stern-looking, the other two much younger. They look up as Alex and I enter, and I realise with a sinking stomach that I know the older bloke –– but I can't remember where or when I met him. That means he was probably a client, and I start frantically comparing his face and form with every man his age I can recall having had meetings with –– for the love of god, how many paunchy, grey-haired old toffs have I shagged? I've lost count.

Oh, what the hell. So what if he knows I'm a whore? I'm just a floater with a job that I'm being coerced into doing; I get it done, and I get a new life. Focus on that, Angelica.

Alex indicates I should sit right beside one of the younger men, and takes the seat next to me himself. I fold my hands in my lap and sit demurely. If the old toff recognises me, he doesn't show any sign of it; his keen grey eyes regard me with neither alarm nor recognition. Well, that's good, makes things a lot easier.

Nobody gives any introductions at all, which is very odd and feels a bit rude. They launch right into questioning me about my education and background. It feels for all the world like a job interview! I wish I'd worn a more professional outfit, and I'm painfully aware that my hair looks shite.

The two younger men take turns asking me questions; one of them, a short, dark bloke with a noticeable East End accent, notes down my answers, while the other nods a lot and strokes his tidy goatee beard. The oldie just sits at the head of the table, silently watching, and Alex is a ghostly presence behind my shoulder.

They test my linguistic ability by shifting in and out of German, Spanish, Russian, Farsi, and a few others that I don't even recognise. German is the only one I have any fluency in, because I actually took courses in it; the rest I can read pretty well and understand some, but speak only haltingly, if at all. I tell them as much, and Note-taker jots it all down.

Eventually they start asking about my work history, including my work as an escort, zeroing in on my friendship with Steen Dijkstra. They ask me all kinds of questions about him, even weird stuff, like what he liked to drink and what programmes he watched on the telly. It's hard for me to talk about Steen without getting emotional, but I muddle through it without embarrassing myself too much.

Eventually, the two younger blokes stop and nod at each other, exchanging glances with the oldie, who hasn't said a word since I came into the room. He looks down at an open file folder in front of him and shuffles through it a bit, looking for something. . . now he definitely looks familiar, doing that. . .

When it hits me where I know this grey-headed toff from, my throat constricts so hard I can't breathe for a moment; I shift my focus away from him, feeling the sharp eyes of the other two on me, and keep my expression bland and blank.

That's the bloke from the recording that McCutcheon showed me. That's the one that frowned at my photo and worried that I was a security risk, the one Mycroft assured that I could be killed if necessary. What the actual hell is he doing interviewing me? The adrenaline rush that I have right now is the last thing that need. I need to stay calm, cool, and collected, not run away shrieking in terror.

Finally, the old toff seems to find the bit of paper he was looking for. _"Miss Talbot,"_ he drawls in his posh voice," _We are prepared to offer you complete deletion of your criminal records and a secure relocation, in exchange for your assistance in a covert operation. Do you agree to this?"_

I chance looking at him squarely, since it would seem odd if I didn't. He's speaking directly to me, and waiting for an answer; I clear my throat so I don't squeak with nerves. _"Yes, I do."_

_"Do you understand that your part in this operation, although extremely minor, carries some potential risk of bodily harm?"_

Which is a long-winded way of asking if I know it might be dangerous. Duh. " _Yes, I understand."_

_"Do you understand that you are not at any time authorised to take any actions on behalf of the British Security Services, save for those you will be explicitly instructed to perform?"_

Like Alex said, do as you're told and nothing more. _"Yes."_

_"Do you understand that any mention or description, written or oral, of this operation and your part in it to any person or persons outside of the Security Services will constitute punishable treason, and will be vigorously prosecuted?"_

I swallow. _"Yes, sir."_

He nods at Note-taker, who reaches across the table and hands me a form and a biro. I look the document over, and it's pretty much what I was just told; no sneaky fine print, so I sign on the dotted line and flick it back across the table.

The grey-headed bloke stands up to silently gather his paperwork into a dark leather briefcase, and everyone jumps to their feet with him. I feel the urge to stand as well, because everyone else is and that's what you're supposed to do, but, No. I don't think I will. All I can think of as I watch him is that video of Mycroft casually offering to terminate me. Context, Mycroft said. Bollocks, I say.

The blokes stand there almost at attention, and the toff nods at them all, ending with me; I get a slight frown and a brusque, " _Miss Talbot"_ in acknowledgement of my existence, and he strides out of the room like a Terribly Busy Man.

Everyone seems to relax hugely after he leaves, and I feel brave enough to start asking questions. _"So, what's my mission? What's this big covert operation?"_ I demand of the room at large.

The other two men both look to Alex, who sits down beside me again. _"Right. First of all, Angelica, you need to understand how the intelligence services work; it's all about teamwork. Forget what you've seen at the cinema, that's just a lot of rubbish. Intelligence officers work as a team, everyone with their own little slice of the project that they know about and are responsible for, and each segment generally has redundancies built into it, to allow for human error, right?"_ I nod, noticing that Note-taker and Beard-boy have moved over to the far side of the room to have a private convo over a tablet computer, allowing Alex to do his handler thing.

Alex goes on. _"So, you can be chill about this whole thing; it doesn't all depend upon you. Of course, your part is important, or we wouldn't bother, but you aren't absolutely vital."_ Alex smiles at the look on my face. _"You're disappointed, aren't you? You wanted to hear that you were going to be single-handedly saving the free world."_

I have to laugh at that, even though I feel a little embarrassed. " _Maybe just a bit."_

 _"Well, this mission isn't that critical, and you won't be out there alone._ " He waves over at the two blokes deep in conversation. _"These two will be in the field with you -- plus, I believe you've been assigned an analyst."_

 _"Analyst?"_ Okay, now I'm really confused. " _Why would I need a shrink?"_

All three of the men in the room burst out laughing. Thanks a bunch. Way to build up my confidence, boys.

Alex shakes his head. _"Sorry, wrong kind of analyst. I mean, a data analyst, someone who stays here in front of a computer screen, but remains in nearly constant communication with you when you're out in the field. A good data analyst can save your life! They're an important part of the team."_

_"You keep saying team, but I can't see what use I'm going to be. I mean, they're obviously trained agents, and I'm just . . . well, I'm just me. And you haven't said a word yet about what I'm supposed to be doing!"_

_"Well, telling you is their job._ " Alex nods over at the two other blokes, " _Your turn,_ " he tells them, and they come to sit back down at the table.

We get properly introduced then, with handshakes all around. The short, dark East Ender gives his name as Jason. The bearded one, tall and weedy, says he's Aaron. I look at the pair of them. _"Not your real names, right?_ "

 _"Probably not._ " Jason's smile flashes, then is gone, like bright koi in a murky pool.

 _"That's fine,"_ I tell him. _"Then you can call me Angel."_

 _"As you like."_ Jason clasps his hands on the table in front of him, continuing sombrely, " _Angel, this operation is a very simple one, with a low risk assessment. We should be in and out within 12 hours or less, easy."_

_"In and out of where?"_

_"Amsterdam."_

_"The Netherlands? Fantastic!"_ I've never been anywhere, really, although I've always wanted to travel. One of my fantasies about escorting was to be one of those fabulous independents who get to jet around the world, like Calypso; not that it did her a lot of good in the end. _"What am I supposed to do in Amsterdam?"_

Jason hands me his tablet computer with a photo displayed on the screen. _"Do you know this man?"_

It's a police mug shot of an older bloke, probably in his fifties: pale and deeply lined face, very short, blond hair. He looks tall and powerfully-built, but stands a little oddly, like his shoulders don't quite match. I peer at the photo carefully, and then I recognise him. _"Oh! That's Jan, Steen's dad. I met him once, last year, but his hair was a bit longer then, and he was wearing a nice suit . . ."_ What the hell is Jan doing in a mug shot? Steen never mentioned his dad getting in trouble.

_"Tell us about your meeting with him, please."_

_"We didn't have a meeting,"_ I correct sharply. That would be gross, having my friend's dad as a client! _"Jan was in London last year on business, and joined Steen and I for lunch at some little place . . . I don't even remember where. He was nice, kind of quiet -- well, quieter than Steen, anyway. His English was very good. Steen was really keen for his dad to meet me ––"_ I break it off there, because the rest is none of their business: Steen had me posing as his girlfriend, because his dad is a screaming homophobe. I don't usually go along with that kind of bollocks, but Steen talked me into it.

_"Do you recall what business Jan Dijkstra said he was in?"_

_"Exports of some kind or another, they were a little vague. . . Oh, I remember. Pharmaceuticals, they said."_ I look again at the photo; it's labelled in Dutch, and, from the date, it was taken just six months ago. " _What kind of trouble did he get in, that's a police mug shot of hi ––"_

I blink as it hits me, and I think my mouth gapes just a little in surprise. _"Oh. Bloody hell. Pharmaceuticals. Exports._ " I sigh deeply. Oh, Steen. _"Jan was trafficking drugs, wasn't he? And Steen was helping him._ " Jason doesn't answer, he just reaches over and reclaims his tablet from my numb fingers, and I can feel my cheeks burning. " _I'm kind of the world's biggest idiot, aren't I? I mean, I never put two and two ––"_

 _"Innocence is nothing to be ashamed of, Angelica."_ Alex's kind voice is followed by a pat on my shoulder. _"But you have to grow up sometime."_

 _"I seem to be having a crash course in grown-up at the moment,_ " I moan. _"You still haven't told me what my part in the operation is."_

Aaron answers this time. _"For now, all you need to know is that we will escort you to Amsterdam today, where you will contact Jan Dijkstra regarding his son's death. Mr. Dijkstra hasn't been informed yet, and since you two are acquainted, isn't it fitting that you bring him the news?"_

What the hell? " _Why wasn't he contacted before now?"_ I fume. " _That's really rude! I mean, they weren't all that close, but that's his father!"_

Jason shrugs. " _It's not ours to say. But,"_ he stands and gathers up his tablet and papers, signalling to Aaron to do the same, _"At least you'll be there shortly to remedy that, won't you?"_

I'm suspicious. " _You're not doing it out of kindness, I'm sure. What are you getting out of my going to see Jan?"_

 _"Your briefing will have to be completed en route, I'm afraid. We've got a flight to catch._ " Jason turns to Alex. _"Take her down to be outfitted. They've got the work order on file, and her analyst is already standing by on remote."_

Alex stands, motioning me to do the same. _"Are the rumours about that true?"_

Aaron strokes his goatee and looks smug, like he's confirming a juicy bit of gossip. " _Yes."_

 _"Like, for real?_ " Alex seems genuinely shocked. _"Not just somebody else using the same handle?"_

 _"For real, they brought Argus back for her."_ Jason confirms.

 _"Who's Argus?_ " I ask them. _"What's the big deal_?"

 _"Probably the best analyst the department ever had,"_ Aaron says. " _He never scratched a mission, never lost an agent. Argus backing you was like having an angel on your shoulder; you were guaranteed to get home in one piece."_

Jason gives me an envious look. _"Somebody at the top really wants to keep you safe."_

 _"Somebody,"_ I agree. But is Mycroft keeping me safe because I have further utility to him? Or because he actually gives a shit? I'll never know, and it shouldn't matter, but I can't help wondering.


	36. "The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong." ~ C.G. Jung

Sometimes the hours drag along like a wounded snail, and sometimes, well, you blink and you've missed the better part of a day. I guess I must have blinked.

The departure lounge of London City Airport is busier than I would have thought, it being Sunday, but I suppose a good number of the travellers are weekenders on their way home. I'm watching the flight announcements as well as listening as best I can for my flight to Amsterdam to board, and I'm not sure if the butterflies in my stomach are from being excited, or scared, or both.

I was definitely excited when Alex escorted me from the conference room to the division downstairs where, he assured me, I would be outfitted with everything I would need. I couldn't wait to get my kit; I mean, this was the real thing, right? Real secret-agent stuff.

But it was pretty disappointing. Alex took me to the offices of a bloke he introduced as Kew who looked even younger than me, although he was rather hot in a nerdy kind of way. Kew called my file up on his computer, glanced at the work order, glanced at me with a smile, then went and fetched me a hearing aid. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a nice hearing aid –– one of those that fits inside your ear all the way, basically invisible–– but it still looked like something your gran would wear.

Alex informed me that it's not a hearing aid, it's a "two-way audio transceiver" for me to communicate with Argus. I wasn't too happy about the idea of someone talking right in my ear, to be honest; it's a little too much like having someone looking over my shoulder. I really resisted the idea, but Alex told me the deal was off if I didn't let them put the transceiver in, so eventually I said okay.

Kew carefully wedged the little earpiece tightly into my left ear, warning me to leave it in and not mess with it or else I could cause permanent damage. There's a teeny on-off switch I could just reach by poking far in with my fingernail, although in order to save the battery I was told not to turn it on until I get to Amsterdam.

 _"Where's the mic? How is Argus supposed to hear me?"_ I had to sit on my hand to keep from twiddling at it right away.

_"Your analyst will be able to hear whatever you can hear, including the sound of your own voice. The pickup can be modified from your analyst's end; they will adjust the sensitivity and volume."_

Then Kew handed me a sleek new mobile phone. Yes! _"What does it do?"_ I asked.

He raised an eyebrow and adjusted his nerd-standard-issue black glasses. _"It sends and receives phone calls and texts."_

 _"What else does it do? Like, does it have. . . explosives. . . or something. . . ?"_ I let my voice trail off when I saw how Kew and Alex exchanged a Look.

 _"Well, no,"_ Kew admitted. _"It's just a mobile phone. However, it does have all the usual functionality you'd expect of a smartphone; camera, gps, and so forth. It can access the internet, although you don't have unlimited data, so do be careful how much video you stream. I wouldn't game on it, either."_

Bloody disappointing, really. _"I have a data cap? I'm on a mission for MI6, and I've got a data cap? That's kind of cheap, isn't it?"_

 _"Austerity, miss. It's affected every level of government."_ Kew didn't smile, and I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

After a quick, stale sandwich in the staff canteen, which was exactly as exciting as it sounds, Alex drove me to the Dormitory so I could freshen up and pack a "small overnight bag." The little carry-on he gave me was not much bigger than a handbag, but I managed to cram a few necessaries into it, and changed my outfit while I was at it.

I wanted to wear something flirty and fun––I mean, Amsterdam, right?–– so I pulled on a pretty floral skater-skirt dress, tall sheer white socks and, on a whim, my bright-red cowboy boots. They're actually quite comfortable and practical, although they don't look a bit of it. Alex's remarks this morning left me a little self-conscious about my hair, so I topped off the ensemble with a slouchy little white crochet beanie.

Then Alex brought me here to City Airport, where he checked me in for my flight and we said our goodbyes, as he was to leave me to wait for the rest of my team. I was actually kind of glad that Alex wasn't going to be waiting with me; after being immersed all morning in his chatter, the charm was beginning to wear a little thin.

So now I'm sat waiting; every now and then I sort of compulsively reach into the top of my boot to check for my mobile and the little wallet of euros that Alex gave me with my passport. It's so nice to have money again! The first thing I'm going to do when I get to Amsterdam is buy a packet of cigarettes and smoke up like a nasty chimney.

I poke and fiddle with my ear that has the transceiver in it; it feels really weird, not quite uncomfortable, but weird. The ambient noise is transmitted through the device, so I can still hear perfectly well, but the sound quality is distorted just enough to be annoying. I'm so preoccupied with my ear that it takes me a moment to realise they've made the first call for my flight; there's still no sign of Jason, nor Aaron. What to do? I deliberate whether I should board without them, or stay and wait.

A few minutes later, last call for boarding comes over the loudspeaker and they still haven't shown up! Bugger it, I'm going anyway; I've got an open return ticket London to Amsterdam and five hundred euros in my boot, why not go? I'm the last one through the doors as the flight attendants motion me to hurry, and once on board I ease myself down the narrow aisle, trying not to thump any of the already-seated passengers in the head with my carry-on. In the bustle of everyone last-minute trying to get situated, I locate my assigned seat, middle in a row of three. . . and there are bloody Jason and Aaron already settled in on either side of it! I slam my bag into the overhead and step over Aaron's knees to my seat.

 _"For fuck's sake, you could have said something about meeting on board,"_ I grumble, flopping down and feeling around for my seat-belt.

Aaron's immaculate goatee frames a patronising smile. _"We wanted to know what you would do if things went a little pear-shaped. You handled it very well."_

I really want to kick this weedy berk in the ankle with the pointy toe of my boot, but I settle for implying a rude gesture in his direction, muttering _"Handle this, mate."_

On the other side of me, in the window seat, Jason clears his throat quietly. _"Right, then. Let's get something settled straight away, shall we?"_

 _"I'm all ears."_ I can feel the vibration of the engines revving under us as the plane lumbers slowly away from its parking space.

_"It's very simple. I am senior intelligence officer on this little expedition. What I say, goes, in any and every situation. If, for any reason, I am unavailable, then Aaron here is in charge. Refusal to follow orders and complete your assignment results in you being sacked, which renders your agreement with the department null and void, and it's back to jail you go."_

I can only imagine how satisfying it would be to kick him in the ankle, too. _"So, what IS my assignment?"_

 _"Not here!_ " Jason hushes, glancing pointedly around the crowded plane.

Well, I suppose not. Any further discussion is cut off by the flight attendants doing their safety show in front, and then our little plane lurches into the sky. My stomach does a loop-the-loop as we take off, but the rest of the flight is calm, and my seat companions are silent; they've popped in their earbuds and are ignoring me. The flight is so short, it seems like we barely get into the air before we have to strap in again for the landing approach. I wish I had the window seat so I could enjoy looking at the city below as we descend, but I'm able to peer over Jason's head and glimpse shimmering ribbons of water and miles of red-tiled rooftops below. It's so foreign-looking, so different. I love it.

I once asked Steen what Amsterdam was like, and he just shrugged. _"It's a city. All cities are pretty much the same if you ignore the language and squint hard enough at the funny writing."_ Bollocks. I don't even have to leave the airport to know this is a completely different city, different life, different everything. I can't wait to see more.

Unfortunately, once we collect our car from the airport hire, it becomes obvious that I'm not going to get in any sight-seeing with this lot. Aaron takes the wheel, and Jason, sitting in the rear seat with me, pulls out his tablet computer and an air of authority.

_"This is a simple mission, Angel. You aren't undercover, so we don't have to worry about disguises or much in the way of cover stories: You've just come to notify your friend's father of his son's sudden, tragic death. You may be as emotional as you like in dealing with Jan Dijkstra; in fact, the more the better, I should think. Grieve with him."_

I give Jason a hard look. _"Have you ever met this bloke? He's not exactly warm."_

My comment is blithely ignored. _"Our sources indicate that Dijkstra and his son were estranged for a number of years, but in the last few had completely reconciled."_

 _"I was Steen's friend, remember? I think I have a good grasp of the dynamics here, probably better than your 'sources,' Jason."_ Steen told me he had had grown up hating his dad, actually, in that matter-of-fact way that happens when dads can't or won't stick around. When they finally met properly, though, Steen found there didn't seem to be any point in hating the man. They got on well, actually, and sort of became friends; not best mates, but congenial enough.

I guess the only really bad patch was Jan's issue with Steen's orientation. He knew that Steen was a male escort, but apparently that sort of gay was okay, as long as Steen pretended it was just for the job. People can be so weird.

I gaze out of the car window at the tantalising city-scape rolling by, glimpses of lovely, tall, narrow buildings queuing right up to the edge of mirror-smooth canals. And the bridges! Everywhere I look there are little stone bridges arching over narrow waterways. Somehow or other, I am going to find a way to spend some time wandering around this city.

I pull my attention back to Jason, and my briefing. _"Is Jan in prison? That was a mug-shot that you showed me earlier."_

_"He's not yet been to prison. Dutch authorities have arrested him several times but they haven't been able to get a conviction yet. We're taking you to near where he lives in Amsterdam-Noord._

_"Now, Angel,"_ Jason leans toward me for emphasis, _"Please listen carefully: Steen Dijkstra acted as a go-between for his father and the UK-based Russian mafia, coordinating the smuggling and distribution of controlled substances––"_

I shake my head sadly. _"It's still kind of difficult to believe, you know? I mean, Steen liked to party as much as anyone, and sometimes popped a pill just to get through the day, but it's hard to imagine him being a trafficker..."_

_"He didn't directly move contraband, he was more of a . . . facilitator and informant. Steen had dozens of government and law-enforcement contacts from his years as an escort, men he could press for information about border policing operations, useful details which he could pass on to the actual smugglers. He recorded samples of the conversations, texts, and emails that he exchanged with these contacts to use as evidence, just in case he ever needed leverage._

_"Earlier this year, Steen got in over his head with the Russians over the theft of some lab notes," Ha! I bet I know more about that than you do, Mr. Jason-i'm-in-charge! "And he came up with a scheme he thought would force us to protect him; he claimed to have sent these records to a trusted individual, with instructions to release them to the public if he were to disappear or die suspiciously._

_"We are now certain that his father is the trusted individual. We want you to tell Jan Dijkstra that his son was murdered, and then find out how he plans to proceed with the information Steen sent him."_

No wonder Mycroft kept Steen's death under wraps! _"How do you know all this?"_

Jason frowns at me and lectures, _"You don't need to know. Teamwork, remember? Each of us is responsible for a piece of the mission, but none of us has the entire picture, not even me."_

 _"Right._ " I shrug. _"So, my part is to just wheedle Jan until he tells me what he's planning to do with the information? That's it?"_

_"That's it. Your transceiver is also a tracking device, of course, so we'll be able to collect you immediately after you accomplish your objective. "_

_"Or find me if anything goes wrong!"_

Jason shakes his head. _"Nothing is going to go wrong. This really is what the Americans like to call a cake-walk assignment, Angel. Simple."_

 _"Right."_ I look out of the window again, watching flocks of cyclists cruising down the wide biking lanes. People are actually smiling as they cycle along, not looking grim and terrified like they do in London. Fancy that. _"How do I locate Jan?"_

_"You'll find that his address and phone number have already been saved in the contacts on your mobile. We're going to let you off at the Amsterdam Centraal, you're to phone him from there as if you've just arrived on the tram from the airport."_

_"Why don't you take me to his place directly? I can always say I took a taxi or something."_

_"We don't know what security surveillance Dikstra has, and it's important that he believes you are here alone; Aaron and I are to stay clear unless you run into serious difficulties. Don't forget, you'll have Argus with you."_

_"I doubt that I'll be needing his help. I don't need a nanny."_

_"No, you don't,_ " Jason unexpectedly agrees. _"Just between you and me, sticking an analyst in your ear for something like this. . . it's like killing flies with a hammer! Complete overkill. But," he spreads his hands, "Ours is not to question why, is it?"_

 _"That's right._ " From the driver's seat, Aaron bobs his head agreeably, eyes on the road.

_"Well, maybe I'll just forget to switch the transceiver on."_

" _You could,_ " Aaron glances in the rear mirror at me with a grin, and Jason glares at him.

 _"No, you can't!"_ Jason objects. _"Angel, your instruction is to turn on your transceiver before making contact with Dijkstra, and to leave it on thereafter. Argus wants to gather intel from your interactions."_

 _"I didn't agree to that!"_ I protest vehemently. _"That's not part of the deal. I don't particularly like Jan, but he's my friend's dad, and I'm not here to help bring him down; his business is not my problem!"_

 _"Don't get your knickers in a twist!_ " Jason frowns. _"Why shouldn't we use the opportunity to get any information we can? Dijkstra might let something slip, something important; that bloke has contacts all over the world. Whose side are you on, anyway?"_

I don't know exactly how to answer that, so I just bite my lip and look out the window.

Amsterdam Centraal is an enormous affair, a multi-level terminal for trains, buses, trams, the metro, and even little ferry-boats that zip across the lake behind the station. Even though it's late on a Sunday afternoon, the place is still bustling. Jason and Aaron let me out at the kerb, handing me my overnight bag and wishing me luck.

First things first: It takes me a while, but I prowl around the station until I find an open shop where I can buy a bottle of water, a packet of cigarettes, and a lighter. A little more prowling takes me back out to the lake-side where smokers are actually allowed to light up.

I puff away blissfully, watching the little blue-and white ferries ply their route across the placid IJ, the lake that runs through Amsterdam like a very slow Thames. From the big map on the wall, I can make out that the city on the opposite shore is Amsterdam-Noord, where Jan lives. Well, that's my destination anyway, and it looks nicer over there; I hop on one of the ferries for a quick ride across the water.

It's not exactly a park, but there's some grass and trees and a few seats on the beach right beside where the ferry docks; even though it's not a completely private spot, I figure it's close enough. I settle in on a bench in the slanting sun, stretching out my legs, feeling the bright warmth soak into my skin and watching the points of sunlight flash on the rippling lake. I prod a little at the healing wound on my thigh, and it feels only a teeny bit tender, not really painful at all. The swelling is completely gone now, and I don't even need a plaster over it. John Watson definitely got the antibiotic right, bless his rumpled heart.

Well, I have work to do. Best get to it. Poking gingerly in my ear, I flick the tiny switch upwards with my fingernail, and clear my throat. I can't believe this thing will actually work, but whatever.

 _"Hey, is anybody there? Hullo?"_ Oh, good grief, I'm sitting alone on a park bench talking to myself! I don't want to look like a nutter, so I quickly pull out my mobile and hold it up to my ear as if I'm on a call. _"Hello? Argus?"_

There's a crackle-popping noise, then a steady hiss of static as a man's voice murmurs directly into my sensitive ear, low and intimate. The vibration sends a thrill up and down my spine, making me shiver in the warm sun, but the volume is too low for me to make out any words.

Get a grip on yourself, Angelica! You don't have to melt into a pile of goo just because some bloke whispers in your ear long-distance. I clear my throat awkwardly. _"I'm sorry, could you raise the volume just a bit? I can hardly hear you."_

 _"Is this better?"_ The voice is slightly louder than the static now.

 _"Yeah, I can make out what you're saying well enough."_ Barely, but whatever.

 _"Then listen to me, please. I know you aren't happy about this arrangement, but I am here to ensure your safety, nothing more."_ He's speaking urgently, like he's afraid I'll switch him off any second. " _Recent developments mean that this assignment could be more dangerous than we originally thought. The mission is still go, but it's been decided that additional precautions, like this monitoring, are necessary."_

I reckon I know who made that decision, but before I can ask Argus if a certain Mycroft Holmes had anything to do with it, the voice in my ear crackles on. _"However, it doesn't have to be me; I can put another data analyst online immediately for you, if you would prefer."_

Six of one, half-dozen of another, as Auntie used to say. _"Doesn't make any difference to me, really. Although they did say you were the best analyst ever. Are you still the best?"_

 _"I've enjoyed some degree of success,_ " he observes. I wish the sound quality was better, so I could tell if he was being ironic or just overly modest.

_"Well, then, I suppose you'll do."_

_"As you wish."_ There's a pause. _"Thank you, Angel. Shall we proceed with the business at hand?"_

 _"Sure."_ Why would he be thanking me? These SIS types are a little strange.

_"Very good. Now, what is your approximate location?"_

" _I'm in Amsterdam-Noord, and the sign over there says I'm at the Veer Buiksloterweg. There's a little strip of waterfront park or whatever it is right beside where one of the ferries from Amsterdam Centraal disembarks."_

_"You are outdoors?"_

_"I'm sitting on a bench soaking up the sunshine, right beside the lake."_

_"Excellent. Please stay where you are, it may take a while to access a satellite that's in alignment. We could even be lucky and get a visual; the cloud cover is very light."_ He goes quiet for a bit, and I hear keystrokes in the background.

 _"Well, that was easier than it might have been,_ " Argus's voice buzzes in my ear. _"And there you are. That's an attractive dress, but bright red boots? Really?"_

I tap together my outstretched toes and laugh. " _Really! I like them. They make me feel good. So, you can see me on a spy satellite right now? That's wild."_

_"I can, but only because your transceiver allows a precise fix. And those boots are hard to miss."_

I look up into the blue sky above me, streaked with high white smears of cloud. _"Hullo, Nanny!"_

 _"Argus,_ " he says reproachfully.

 _"So your emblem is a peacock?_ " I'm showing off a little; I always loved Greek mythology.

 _"Perhaps."_ He sounds amused. " _Yes, quite possibly so."_ Then, brusquely, _"Now, tell me what you understand your assignment to be."_

I repeat what Jason told me, adding, _"So, I'm just supposed to have a cuppa and a sit down with Jan? That's all?"_

_"Yes, that's all."_

_"Okay, but what if I––"_

_"Angel, none of our agents has been able to infiltrate Dijkstra's little organisation, nor to gain his confidence. You are the best chance we have of determining if he indeed has the information, and what he intends to do with it. Just that alone will be invaluable."_

_"But, what if I can steal the disk or usb drive or whatever it is that Steen sent him? Before Jan has a chance to make it public? Wouldn't that be even better?"_

_"No! Absolutely not! You are to attempt nothing of the kind. We've seen this coming for some time and prepared for it; in fact, that there will be difficulties if the scandal doesn't break soon."_

I can't help but laugh. _"So you actually want to make sure that there's a scandal? Okay. Sounds weird, but okay."_

 _"It's so much more effective to channel a calamity than to try and prevent one,"_ Argus observes, _"And this will remove some dead wood that desperately needs pruning. A win-win situation."_

_"Except for the blokes who'll get caught up in the scandal!"_

_"Does that bother you?"_

I consider. " _No, not really,_ " I answer honestly. _"Does that make me a bad person?"_

_"Would you be upset if it did?"_

_"Do you always answer questions with riddles? Maybe you should be called Sphinx instead of Argus._ " Argus Panoptes, Argus the All-Seeing. I look up at the sky again. _"Will you be able to watch me the whole time?"_

_"Direct visual will only be possible when you are outside, and under light cloud cover. I can track you through your transceiver, though, and I have limited access to the Dutch surveillance camera network, such as it is. Be assured, if anything goes wrong, we can extract you very quickly."_

_"I'm not really too worried, to be honest. If keeping an eye on me makes you guys happy, then whatever––but you'll be quiet most of the time, right? You won't be chattering in my ear constantly?"_

_"You'll forget I'm even here,_ " Argus promises.

_"And I can turn off this transceiver for privacy when I need to, like going to the toilet and things?"_

_"I would much appreciate it if you did, thank you!"_

Even the transceiver's shite sound quality can't mask the fervour in his plea, and I laugh out loud again. Okay, if I have to have someone in my ear for the next few hours, this bloke is all right. _"I will, promise."_

_"Very good. Well, I think you should be getting on with it, don't you? Good luck."_

_"Yeah. Thanks."_

There's a soft click, and the sound filtering in through the transceiver changes, the background noises of people and the ferryboat engines become louder and more defined. I have to keep in mind that, as long as I don't turn off the transceiver, Argus can still hear everything that I can hear, even if he's got himself on mute.

I look at the contacts on my mobile, and as promised there's already an entry for Jan. I'd rather text, but as he's an older bloke ringing him is likely to get a better response.

I'm surprised when he answers right away, but it doesn't surprise me that he can't remember who I am. _"Angelica? Angelica who?"_ he asks.

_"Steen's friend, Angelica Talbot. You and I met last year, in London. I really need to speak with you in person, I've come all this way. I'm in Amsterdam, at the Veer Buiksloterweg, I took a ferry across . . . "_

_"You're here? Now?"_ There's a pause. _"Why are you here?"_

_"I need to talk to you. About Steen. Please, can you meet me someplace, for just a little bit? I promise I won't take much of your time."_

There's another pause, and I'm framing how best to wheedle him into meeting with me when he says, _"I'll come for you, okay? That's very close to my house. You stay in place, I'll be there within, say, half an hour?"_

Relieved, I promise to be waiting for him right by the ferry landing, and he rings off. Well, that was easy, at least so far. I keep my arse glued to the bench and have a smoke or three while I'm waiting, gazing at the city across the water, thinking about my conversation with Argus. Does not really caring if I'm bad make me bad? It's all a little disturbing.

Not even twenty minutes later, a shiny silver Audi cruises by slowly, twice. That's gotta be Jan; I stand, smiling and waving, and he pulls the car over to the kerb, jumping out to greet me. He tosses my overnight case into the car's huge boot and settles me in next to him in the front seat. _"Well, Angelica. Welcome! This is a surprise._ " His mouth is smiling, but his hazel eyes are wary.

Jan Dijkstra looks much like he did last summer: a tall, lean man in his early 60's, more or less attractive but not exactly handsome, with an odd twist to the set of his shoulders. His grey-blond hair has way too much product, and he seems to think that careless beard-stubble is a sexy look; combined with the open-neck black polo shirt and designer jeans, he looks a bit of a 1980's leftover.

I don't exactly know how to tell him that his son is dead. I mean, it's not the kind of thing I've ever had to do before, so I just launch into it. _"Thanks for coming, Jan, I really appreciate it. I don't know how to say this, but––"_

 _"We have a saying, we Dutch,"_ Jan smoothly interrupts. His English is heavily accented but very fluent. _"'Everything sounds sweeter to a full stomach.' May I take you to dinner? And then have our serious talk, later."_

 _"Well, yes, dinner would be lovely, thank you."_ I'm totally starving, to be honest, and dinner should be the perfect way to connect with him and ease into his confidence.

So Steen's dad takes me out to a very posh, cosy little restaurant, and it's weird as fuck. He's quite a lot more personable than when I met him last year; in fact, he's so personable that it's making me a little uncomfortable.

 _"Jan,"_ I say hesitantly, after he makes yet another flattering remark, _"You're being really kind to say such nice things, but it feels a little inappropriate? I mean, Steen and I––"_

 _"––were nothing but friends."_ My surprise must show on my face, because Jan gives me a tight-lipped smile. _"I wasn't fooled, not for a minute. I knew Steen was . . . well, we Dutch are supposed to be tolerant, right? If one has other views, one keeps them private. But I knew, even if I kept silent and let Steen have his little show."_

That's fairly shitty –– plus I notice that Jan's using the past tense. There's one question answered, I guess. I try to shift the conversation toward talking more about Steen, but Jan isn't having any of it; instead, his banter gets more flirtatious, and he invites me to go with him after dinner to his place where we can "really relax."

I'm not sure what to do. I could just go for it, I guess. Jan's not totally repulsive, and it would probably make it easier to get the information I need. But, I really don't want to shag Steen's dad! There have to be other options.

By the end of the meal I'm sipping a demitasse of strong coffee, still unsure of my next move, when my ear is flooded by familiar static and a soft voice saying, "I need to speak with you, urgently. Perhaps you could excuse yourself for a few minutes?"

Now what? I place the tiny cup down on its saucer, and tell Jan I need to use the loo. He gives me a toothy grin and a wink, saying he won't be going anywhere without me.

How reassuring. I find the ladies' room, a plush pink-and-gold affair, and quickly check under the stalls to make sure they're unoccupied. _"I'm alone. What's up?"_

The voice in my ear is distorted but I can clearly hear his impatience as Argus gets right to the point: _"You're holding back too much. This is no time to practice being coy."_

_"Holding back? If you mean I'm not racing to jump into bed with Jan, you're right, I'm not. He's Steen's dad!"_

_"You have to set your personal feelings aside and focus on accomplishing your mission!_ " Argus lectures. _"How you feel about it should play no part. You must use any and all means at your disposal to gain his confidence."_

Goodness, that sounds familiar! Didn't Sherlock say pretty much the same thing just a day or two ago? Men. Always happy for me to use my body for their benefit. _"Gee, Argus, thanks for the encouragement or permission or whatever, I'll keep it in mind. But, just so you know, I have no intention of getting intimate with Jan. I don't want to, so I'm going to find another way."_

_"He's trying to seduce you, Angel! I didn't anticipate that, but it's perfectly obvious that he fancies you, and it would be foolish not to capitalise on that, although with caution, please; he remains an unknown quantity. What I want you to do is to agree to accompany him––"_

_"Why are you trying to talk me into it?_ " I demand, as I'm struck by a nasty thought. _"Is it because you want to get off on listening or something?"_

 _"Certainly not!"_ Argus emphatically denies, then adds, _"Listening to you, or anyone else, having sex is utterly unappealing to me."_

 _"Oh?_ " I'm skeptical. _"I've never heard of a man who didn't like porn."_

_"Evidently I lack the empathy or imagination or whatever it is that allows people to properly enjoy such things. So if you would be so kind as to pack away your suspicions, perhaps you could concentrate on accomplishing your objective as efficiently as possible?"_

_"I'll get the job done. In my own way."_

Argus mutters something that I can't quite hear through the hissing static. " _Pardon?"_ I ask.

He repeats it, louder. _"If it's because of me, I can assure you that that is no longer an issue."_

 _"Why would it have anything to do with you! What do you mean, no longer an issue? What are you talking ab––?"_ Oh, bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell.

 _"For fuck's sake, Mycroft, what the actual fuck are you doing!"_ I'm shouting now, and I don't even care. _"What are you doing? I can't. . .I don't even. . .Oh!"_

I'm in such a frenzy to turn off the transceiver that I scratch the inside of my ear with my fingernail, drawing a little blood, and have to grab a wad of toilet tissue and press it hard against my ear to make the pink oozing stop. God, I am such an idiot! How could I not recognise Mycroft's voice? Okay, so there was a lot of static and distortion, and he was the last person I would have expected, but, still, how could I be so stupid . . . !

I'm so angry that I'm shaking. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, calming down so I can think instead of just raging.

Why is he doing this? There has to be a reason; it's not as if he sits around with loads of time on his hands and nothing to do. This means something, and I need to know what it is. I need to know if I can believe in him again.

I reach my finger into my poor scraped ear and carefully flick on the transceiver. It pops and crackles.

 _"Mycroft, why are you doing this?_ " I ask quietly.

_"I believe I already explained that quite clearly: You are the best chance we have of finding out what Dijkstra intends to do. And please call me Argus; this transmission is encrypted, but even so, one does not use an agent's civilian name in the field."_

Figures that Mycroft would be the Miss Manners of spies. _"Right. Okay, I get why you sent ME, but why are you the one in my ear? Why are YOU doing this?"_

He sighs extravagantly, sounding very put-upon. _"As the old saw would have it, if you want a job done properly. . ."_

_"But you can't do all the jobs yourself! Why this one? Either this mission is more important than you're letting on, or I am."_

_"Begging to have your ego stroked is rather pathetic, don't you think?"_ he observes dryly.

I have to ball up my fist to keep from slamming the wall in frustration. _"Piss off! I am not looking for validation from you, you miserable toe-rag! I'm trying to understand what the actual fuck you think you are doing! Do you have any idea how much this is messing with my head? Do you?"_

This time his sigh sounds heartfelt, and there is a long, static-filled pause before he admits, _"Obviously, I do not."_

Actually, I didn't realise how much it was messing with me until I said it just now. _"Well, it is! Severely! It's like, you're cold as ice and can hardly wait to wash your hands of me one minute, then the next you're crooning in my bloody EAR and pretending to not be you! What the fuck? Did you have a good time fooling me and proving yet again what an idiot I am?"_

 _"How was I to know you didn't recognise my voice?_ " he snaps crossly. " _You were being extremely familiar––"_

 _"It's called being friendly, for fuck's sake! I'm a friendly person! I know that's a bit of a stretch for you to imagine, being friendly!"_ I stop and calm myself down; it's not like an emotional scene is going to help me here. _"Okay. Okay, so you didn't know that I didn't know. Okay. Now we're both on the same page. I just. . . I just need to understand why you are here, doing this. I need to know where I fit into things!"_

When he answers, his words are clipped and precise. _"Where you 'fit into things,' Angel, is in having a certain amount of potential utility that I wish to preserve. Is that answer enough? Or,"_ he threatens in a silken voice, _"Would you perhaps like me to sing your praises for you?"_

 _"No,"_ I answer sullenly. Would it kill him to admit, _Because you matter to me?_ Apparently, it would.

 _"I think I should go now,"_ he adds.

_"What?"_

_"Another data analyst should take over, immediately. You aren't capable of being truly reasonable with me. I'm sorry, I should have anticipated that. It's my fault, not yours."_

What's really infuriating is that I can tell he means it. _"Don't bother finding a replacement,_ " I snarl, _"That will not make any bloody difference, because I am switching off this bloody transceiver right now! Monitoring me for this piddly assignment is total overkill; you're the one being unreasonable again, My––Argus, and I'm not going to stand for it!"_

Mycroft shouts something or other at me, but I switch off the transceiver anyway. I'd pull the thing out, but I don't want to damage my ear; besides, it's good insurance to have them able to track me. Just in case.

I spare a few moment to wee, wash up, and adjust my beanie at a jaunty angle, then I saunter back into the dining room, swaggering in my red boots. It feels bloody good to draw boundaries with that man, and stick to them. About time!

Jan is waiting for me a little impatiently, and I apologise for taking so long to "powder my nose," but I immediately regret using that particular phrase.

" _Well, if you wanted to powder your nose, you should have said so!"_ he laughs. _"At home I've got all the powder you could want, finest quality. And some excellent weed, too. . . "_

Oh, good lord, the last thing I want to do is party with this fossil! But I have a plan now; I know precisely what I'm doing, so I smile widely and act as if I had just been waiting all along for him to offer up the good stuff. He laps it up as eagerly as I thought he would, and before long we're headed for his house "to relax."

It turns out that navigating through Noord-Amsterdam is very tedious tonight, as there's some street festival going on; automobile traffic is diverted and slowed to a crawl as it winds through the neighbourhood.

Jan drums his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. _"Bloody hipsters. Noord used to be a quiet place, you know? A post-industrial wasteland. Nobody wanted to live up here on the wrong side of the lake."_

_"What happened?"_

_"The fucking artists 'discovered' it. And then everybody else, because suddenly it's hip, and before you know it there's a McDonalds and a Starbucks and thousands of tourists. And fucking street parties,"_ he waves a hand at the revelry around us, _"For no reason whatsoever. It was better when they left this place to the drug traders and the whores and the other despicable folk."_

Grrr. _"Sex work isn't despicable, Jan. Sex doesn't ruin lives the way drugs can."_

Fingers still drumming, Jan looks at me with a smirk. _"Some of your clients are married, right? You think maybe visiting a prostitute could strain a marriage? You think maybe you might have ruined a few lives?"_

 _"It's not my job to police people's morality!_ " I protest, feeling an unwelcome shock. I didn't think Jan knew I was an escort. I wonder what else Steen told him about me.

Jan shrugs. _"Nor mine,"_ he observes.

There's a flaw in his logic, but I'm not invested enough in the discussion to figure it out. Finally, the traffic starts to move again, and Jan weaves the car through the crowd on the street, revving the engine now and again to encourage people to scurry out of his way.

Jan's place isn't some skeevy little flat, it's actually quite a nice, modern home with a tidy garden and an attached garage. The inside is totally luxurious and spotless, with lots of sparkling glass and light oak floors and comfy furnishings. I settle in at one end of the big, beige sectional sofa that curves around two walls of the living room. Playing the gracious host, Jan disappears into the kitchen to open a bottle of some incredibly special wine that I apparently have to try, _"Before anything else!"_ he says with a wink.

Jan brings out the opened bottle and pours a wine-glass full for me, then fetches several bottles of beer for himself. He pours his glass and raises it to me: _"Proost!"_

 _"What do you think of the wine?_ " he asks eagerly as I take a sip. _"It's made by friends of mine who just migrated to South Africa to open a winery. You have to drink at least one full glass so you can give me an honest review, okay? They are trying very hard, but I can't say if it's any good because I don't drink wine."_ Jan pauses his info-dump to brandish his beer glass at me.

I swirl the wine gently and sniff it. The bottle says Pinot Noir, and it smells and tastes pretty much like it should; which is saying something, because Pinot Noir is really hard to get right. There is a little bitter bite that I've never tasted in a Pinot before, but it finishes round and smooth; overall it's good shit, and I tell Jan as much. He looks genuinely pleased and relieved, grabbing the bottle to top up my glass.

_"Oh, not too much, Jan! I don't want to get silly. I can never tell what I might do after too much wine."_

To my relief, he doesn't follow up my opening with more flirtation. He just sets the bottle down, smiling, and we chat about wine versus beer, and Jan tells me far too much about his friends who migrated to the South to grow grapes. It's horribly boring, but I'm saved by the unexpected sound of a toilet flushing upstairs.

 _"Who. . ._?" I ask, looking at the ceiling.

_"My girlfriend, Vera, is home right now. She'll be going out shortly, don't worry."_

It shouldn't, but this feels terribly awkward. _"Erm, would she like to join us? That would be fine with me."_

_"She doesn't like new people. Sorry, no offence, you know?"_

_"That's fine, I understand. Well, what's she like?"_ I ask, still feeling awkward.

 _"Tall and slender, like you,_ " he shrugs.

That's not what I meant, but whatever. I'm getting tired of waiting for Jan to decide we can talk about Steen, so I drink a little more of my wine and take a deep breath. _"Jan, I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it. Have you heard the news about Steen?"_ I'm pretty sure I already know the answer, but I have to be certain.

He nods once, then takes a deep draught of his beer, knocking back almost half of it. _"What?_ " he growls, wiping his mouth with the edge of his thumb, _"That he got himself killed? I heard."_

Right. No surprises here. _"I knew his mum was officially his next of kin, so I wasn't sure if you would be contacted as well."_

_"I wasn't. Not by the cops, and certainly not by that bitch in Sydney. Good thing I have my own networks."_

_"Steen's mum lives in Adelaide now."_

_"Whatever."_ He takes another drink of his beer. _"So that's it? That's why you came all this way?"_

_"No. I need to make sure of something. . . "_

_"What?"_

I look down at the shimmering garnet of the wine in my glass. Showtime, Angelica! _"Steen told me that he trusted you with some sensitive information, stuff that you were to take to the media if something should happen to him. Something did happen to him. . . so what are you going to do?"_

Jan sprawls back against the cushions, crossing his ankles. _"Why do you care? I think it's none of your business."_

Why do I care? Why is it my business? I have a feeling he'll know I'm lying if I start spouting off about justice and honouring Steen's last wishes like I had planned to. What will Jan believe? A lie springs to my lips so fast, I don't even have to think about it. _"Because if you don't want to take the story to the media yourself, then I want to do it. I want to be on the telly, I want to be famous, even if it's just for a week. This could be my big break!"_

He takes it in thoughtfully, but then shakes his head, tight-lipped. Damn. _"Sorry, but I have to tell you no. I'm going to hang onto Steen's little gift for now. You never know when a bit of blackmail material might be useful. I'd be stupid to give away an advantage like that."_

_"But Steen––"_

_"––is dead. He miscalculated, and he lost. It happens._ " Jan is very matter-of-fact. I could tell him what a cold bastard I think he is, but I doubt that he'd give a bloody damn what I think.

I settle for glaring at him. That's that, I guess; I know what Jan is planning to do with the information Steen gave him, mission accomplished. I suppose I really ought to make my excuses and get the hell out here, right now. . . but not just yet. I want to see what else he'll tell me.

 _"Well, that's your perogative_ ," I pout. " _And you're right, it isn't any of my business. I just was really, really fond of Steen, and I miss him lots and lots."_ I don't have to fake the glimmer of tears in my eyes, or the sadness in my voice. I give a little sniffle and drink some more wine. Once you get past that initial bitter bite, it's really quite good, and I'm getting a buzz off it already. I can feel the tension dissolving from my neck and shoulders, tension I didn't even know was there until it went away. Nice.

I rest my head against the soft cushions behind me, asking plaintively, _"Why did they have to kill him? I know he was in deep all over the place, but. . ."_

At this, Jan's lined face crinkles up and he barks a harsh laugh, finishing his beer and opening another to pour into his glass. _"All over the place, that's an understatement. The boy was trying to diversify, I'll give him that. About time, too, you know? He was getting too old, he had to find other work. That's why I hired him, you know? I wanted to help."_

I snort a laugh. _"So you helped him get into trafficking? Like that's a great career move with a bright future?"_

 _"It's the family business,"_ Jan growls. _"It was good enough for my father, and good enough for me_." I kind of like it when he growls, it's throaty and more than a bit sexy. Now that Jan's not putting the moves on me and being gross, I can appreciate where Steen's casual sex appeal came from. There's something about him that is so much like Steen. . . Jan's quite okay, really, despite his vague skeevyness.

_"Sorry, that came out kind of harsh. I just . . . I just want to know what happened to him. I just want to know."_

Jan cocks a speculative eyebrow at me. " _You want to know? All of it?_ " I nod my head, Yes. He glances at the nearly-empty wineglass in my hand, then shrugs. _"Why not? No harm in telling you_." He begins rubbing his thumb back and forth slowly across the rim of his beer glass, staring into the foamy amber. _"Steen was ambitious. He had plans. Investment ideas, some good ones. Surfing resorts on the Gold Coast, things like that, but he needed a lot of money to get things going, more than he could make turning tricks, you know? Especially at his age. He made some extra money head-hunting for that escort agency,"_ Jan looks up at me meaningfully, _"But it wasn't enough._

_"So I gave him a job, to help me deal with the fucking Russians, that Doreshchenko and the rest. They had Steen do distribution for them at first, working under McCutcheon. Once they felt they could trust him, he was allowed to take on coordinating the major drop-points, making sure we could stay one step ahead of the cops. The Russians loved that, treated him like one of their own._

_"Then he rang me one day, saying Doreshchenko had gotten his hands on some valuable information, and that McCutcheon had offered him a considerable amount to nick it for him. I advised Steen to stay the hell out of a double-cross like that. McCutcheon was obviously looking for a someone to take the fall for him, you know? But McCutcheon kept offering more money. . . Finally Steen gave in and did it, but while he and McCutcheon were still negotiating the final payout, Steen changed his mind and wouldn't sell. He never said why––"_

_"I reckon I know why,"_ I say, although I'm feeling so relaxed it's an effort to form the words. _"McCutcheon was going to sell the information to terrorists, and Steen found out. McCutcheon didn't care if innocent people would be killed, but Steen cared."_

 _"That would be like him, wouldn't it? You know, caring doesn't do you any good in this life,"_ Jan shakes his head. _"Caring just makes you the bigger fool."_

_"What happened then?"_

" _Then McCutcheon did what he probably planned to all along; he told the Russians. He lied and told them it was all Steen's idea. Then Doreshchenko sent some hitmen after Steen––foreigners, but not Russians, he didn't want any obvious ties with them––"_

_"The Iranians? They weren't exactly hitmen, more like little punks. . . "_

Jan shrugs and finishes his beer. _"I don't know who was sent. Somebody. They weren't successful. So my idiot son decided that if he returned the book to the Russians, they would give him a kiss and a hug and all would be forgiven. He was so frightened by then that he was taking handfuls of pills just to cope, but getting wasted only makes you more stupid, you know?"_ I remember the phone message that Steen left me the night he got killed, and I nod. Yeah, he had sounded pretty incoherent, and why else would he assume that I knew who "The Pigman" was?

 _"And, by then it didn't matter what Steen did,_ " Jan adds, " _McCutcheon couldn't let him live."_

_"McCutcheon. . .?"_

_"Yeah, it was that American bastard that shot him. At least, that's what Doreshchenko was told_." My cheeks flush with anger. Fucking McCutcheon. No wonder Mycroft wouldn't tell me who killed Steen; I would have gone after him myself, and probably gotten killed as well.

 _"Of course,"_ Jan adds, _"that means you'd have to believe McCutcheon was telling the truth, even though that fucker lies just for the fun of it. It's a hobby with him. He's a bloody menace."_

 _"Not any more,"_ I say with savage satisfaction.

_"Oh?"_

_"MI6 have him."_ The thought makes me smile from ear to ear.

 _"I wouldn't think you'd be so pleased about your boss being in jail._ " Jan leans forward and puts his empty beer glass on the coffee table, taking my nearly-empty wineglass from my lax fingers to place beside it.

 _"My boss? No, never."_ I shake my head vigorously.

_"That's not what I heard."_

_"Then you heard wrong. I did one little job for him, because he convinced me I didn't have any choice. It was stupid of me, I was stupid to let him convince me. . . But I don't work for him."_ I realise that Jan is looking at me skeptically, and I shrug. Whatever.

_"Who do you work for, then?"_

I almost, ALMOST say, Mycroft Holmes! But I turn the "Myy-y" into " _Myy-self. I work for myself. I'm an independent escort. Like Calypso,"_ I add helpfully. I'm certainly not going to have any more of that wine; I don't want to get any drunker than I already am. Either I'm so run-down that I've got no tolerance for alcohol right now, or that wine was really strong. Or both.

 _"Calypso?_ " Jan laughs.

_"You probably never heard of her, she was––"_

_"I know who she was. I just can't believe you think she worked for herself."_

_"She did! She was self-employed."_

_"She may have been a self-employed prostitute, but she worked for your government. Everybody knows that."_

I stare at Jan, nonplussed. _"I didn't know it. What happened to her?"_

_"She got greedy and out of control, so her name was 'accidentally' leaked as a government informant. Then it was only a matter of time before somebody with a grudge decided to settle the score."_

_"No evidence. Just rumours. . ."_ I stifle a yawn. For fuck's sake, this is no time to be napping!

 _"I know what I'm talking about,_ " he counters. _"Besides, it's the kind of thing that happens. Make promises, break promises, dispose of inconvenient people. . . It's all just business. Governments are just the biggest business there is. Rich people invest in governments like they do in stock markets––"_

He goes off for a bit on the evils of corrupt government, but I'm not listening. Listening takes effort, and I'm having to work pretty hard just to follow one line of thought at this point. Calypso worked as an informant? Maybe even for Mycroft? Then what about her and Cobb and those nasty photos? And why did that Russian gangster Mike, or Mica, or whatever his name is, have them? And, why, why, why. . .

 _"What about the other two?"_ I ask suddenly.

Jan stops in mid-rant. _"The other two what?"_

_"Sex workers. Killed same as Calypso. Same gun."_

_"To cover it up, of course._ " Jan looks at me like I'm being stupid. _"To muddy the waters."_

 _"Murdering innocent women. To muddy the waters._ " I'm not so out of it that I don't feel outraged all over again. " _Bollocks. Bloody bollocks."_

He shrugs carelessly, then pulls out his phone to check the time. _"You are feeling pretty sleepy by now, yes? You look sleepy."_

I nod my head, struggling to keep my eyes open. _"I'm so sorry, can't hardly keep awake. It's been such a long week, so much."_ Wait a minute. _"You're expecting me to feel sleepy!"_

Jan puts his phone back in his pocket and stands up, crossing his arms and looking down at me. _"It's nothing personal, Angelica, it's just business. I'm sorry._ " He actually sounds slightly regretful. _"Whether or not you work for McCutcheon, you are too well-informed about my business, and it risks my security to leave you alive. But don't worry, you don't deserve to suffer. I won't let you suffer. You'll fall asleep, and you just won't wake up, okay?"_

While he's talking I heave my hand up to my ear, fumbling to switch on my transceiver. . . to call for help . . . my head is a boulder lolling against the cushions; I'm all but immobilised. My eyelids flutter as I try to focus on Jan standing over me with a sad smile on his fucking face the fucking fucker fucking roofied me he ROOFied ME w h y . . .?


	37. "There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground; there are a thousand ways to go home again." ~ Rumi

 

Darkness. I flutter my eyes open to velvet black, and close them again. Nothing. Maybe I'm dead.

No, my head hurts too much, and my stomach is horribly sick. There's no afterlife I've ever heard of where your head and stomach pound and even blinking hurts. I'm so nauseated that everything is pitching and rolling, and my head throbs with a constant low roar.

There's something close over my face, making the air stale. Plastic. No, vinyl. Reeking, like a new shower curtain. It's difficult, but I move my arm, dragging my hand upwards, until I reach my face. . . eyes open, eyes closed. No difference. But I can feel my face, I'm breathing, pushing, lifting the thick vinyl, it rustles . . . the air is so stale, like breathing into a pillow when I used to hyperventilate, like I used to sometimes before. . . Mycroft! My fingers fumble to my ear, flick the switch to hear the familiar pops and crackles.

 _"Mycroft,"_ I whisper hoarsely _. "Mycroft."_

There's nothing but static hissing in reply. Nobody there. He's gone. He gave up on me.

That's it, I guess. I could just go ahead and die here, it's not like anyone would care or anything. Already done up in a body bag, too, nice and tidy. . . a body bag. I'm in a body bag, a plastic pouch. A zippered pouch. I clumsily run my fingers along the material in front of my face, searching. There has to be a zip. . .

The static in my ear gets louder. _"So you deign to check in at last. How nice,"_ a familiar voice drawls.

I sob with relief, but my throat won't quite let me make words. Mycroft's voice instantly sharpens with concern. _"Angel! What is your status? Report!"_

 _"I think I'm . . . I'm in a body bag,"_ I croak. " _It's completely dark. It's hard to breathe . . . I––"_

He doesn't waste any time with how or why. _"Are you injured?"_

 _"No. Maybe? I can't tell. Everything hurts. But I can move my arm, at least."_ My searching fingers find the centre seam over my nose. _"I just found the zipper_."

_"There will be two zip slides. Feel for the point where they meet, you'll be able to force it open it there."_

It takes some poking about, but I eventually find the slides, and work my finger into the space between enough to force them apart. _"I've got it, I'm pushing them apart."_

Fresh air seeps in as I slowly unzip the bag, but I still can't see. I push and wriggle my way out, suddenly panicking and desperate to get clear.

 _"Steady on, now, steady on. You need to stay calm,"_ the voice in my ear soothes.

I'm fully outside the bag now, shivering cold, gasping, the clammy vinyl crumpled under me on a hard, chill floor _. "I still can't see. I think I'm blind. I still can't see anything, no matter if my eyes are open or shut."_ I almost can't form the words for shaking. _"My heart is pounding so hard, like I'm dying . . . I'm so dizzy, everything is pitching about. . ."_ Another wave of nausea hits me, and I groan with the cramping pain in my gut.

 _"It's unlikely that you are blinded,"_ his voice is reassuringly firm. _"There are very few drugs with that side effect. I assume you were drugged?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Injection or ingestion?"_

_"It was in the bloody wine. . ."_ The wine Jan had been so determined for me to try. The wine he had to give me all the details about. Only lies have details.

_"Then it was likely GHB; that has the side effects you describe. That won't blind you, and if the dose you consumed hasn't killed you by now, it won't. You can't see because there isn't any light."_

Oh. Well, that's slightly less terrifying, I suppose _. "Where am I? Do you have a fix on me?"_

 _"I wouldn't be able to talk to you if I didn't,"_ Mycroft chides _. "You are on a rented motor yacht 22.7 kilometres northwest from the port of Den Helder, travelling at a speed of 25 knots."_

 _"I'm on a powerboat?"_ That would explain why the floor won't stay still. And the constant muffled roar in my head is probably the engines.

_"Yes, you are. A 22-metre Azimut70, to be precise. I have a schematic of it right in front of me."_

_"Oh, god, I hate boats. I hate boating."_

_"I don't think Dijkstra is taking you on a pleasure cruise. I imagine you are headed someplace where he hopes to permanently dispose of you."_

_"Great, that's just fucking terrific. Where are Jason and Aaron?"_

_"Following you. I'm arranging your extraction right now."_ Now I notice the clacking keyboard in the background; he's been multitasking the whole time.

Anger and fear twine through me. _"Why aren't they here now? I thought they were supposed to be watching out for me."_ I know I'm being a whinging little bitch, but I don't have the energy to fight it. _"I guess you wanted to be sure I was still alive before you made the effort to try and get me out, right?"_

 _"No,"_ he replies evenly _. "We've been tracking you closely since you left the city an hour ago; however, we didn't realise that the woman accompanying Dijkstra wasn't you. She is wearing your clothing, including the white hat and red boots. He probably suspected you were under observation."_

 _"What? He's got some bitch wearing my boots?"_ I love those boots.

 _"Distressing, I'm sure."_ The keys keep clacking.

I am rapidly feeling less rough, although the nausea is still gnawing away at my guts. I try slowly sitting up, but have to stop halfway and groan, clutching my stomach. I've had quite a few bad morning-afters, but none so bad as this one. I just want to curl up into a ball of misery. Instead, I push myself until I'm sat all the way up, holding my head in my hands. _"So when am I getting out of here?"_

_"Your support team is en route. Intercept is in approximately 22 minutes."_

_"Can they get here any faster?"_

_"Doubtful."_ He adds, apologetically _, "I couldn't have them following too closely. Smuggler's boats are often equipped with military radar and enhanced engines, so your team is going to need the element of surprise."_

Bloody hell. A lot can happen in 22 minutes. _"So, am I just supposed to zip myself back into the bag and wait to see what happens? Hope for the best?"_

_"That would be one solution. I may have a better one. . ."_

There's a pointed pause. He's going to make me beg, the git. I sigh _, "What might that be, if you don't mind my asking?"_

_"I would recommend disembarking immediately. If you'll allow me, I can guide you to the safest place to dive off the yacht undetected and, with a life jacket, you'll be able to remain safely adrift until your team can locate you."_

_"That's a lovely plan. I'd really enjoy following that plan. . . except that finding a life jacket and slipping overboard is going to take a bit of stealth, and I can't even stand up at the moment."_

_"You haven't tried yet,"_ Mycroft points out.

_"How do you know?"_

_"Because I haven't heard you fall down."_

_"You're just full of the milk of human kindness, aren't you?"_ He's right, though. I roll awkwardly, trying to get my feet under me. _"Please don't laugh at me when I fall over."_

 _"Pratfalls do not amuse me,"_ he promises.

At least he stays quiet while I'm rolling around and grunting with effort. I finally give up on standing unassisted and crawl forward until I reach a wall, then use that to lean against and slowly push myself up.

It feels like a major victory when I do gain my feet _. "I'm up. Didn't fall down, although I'm pretty sure my head is going to explode now."_ Ow, ow, ow.

_"Take a moment to recover."_

_"If you insist."_ I slump against the wall, my head tucked down _. "Mycr–– I mean, Argus?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Just so you know, I really regret turning off the transceiver today at the restaurant. That was stupid. You were totally right, I shouldn't have trusted Jan at all."_

_"Do you understand why you trusted in him, despite my warnings?"_

_"He was Steen's dad, so I thought I knew what he was about."_ It's painful to admit being that arrogant, but it's the bloody truth.

_"Sentiment, yes."_

_"But my feelings are usually so on the money. . ."_

_"Blindly following intuition, what you call 'feelings,' inevitably results in wishful thinking and sentimental bias._

_"Now, you sound nearly recovered, so let's get you moving. This is your situation: There are four persons on-board besides yourself; Jan Dijkstra, his female companion, and the two men who crew the boat. The last good satellite capture showed all four up in the flybridge, so if you remain on the rear deck they won't be able to see you at all. There are life jackets stowed in a number of convenient places; you should be able to take one and slip into the water off the starboard side with an acceptably low risk of injury from the propellers."_

_"An acceptably low risk?"_

_"Less than twelve percent probability, allowing for the the speed of the boat and the height of the waves."_

_"Only twelve percent risk of getting minced! Thank you, Mr. Spock."_

_"I hope you don't think you're being original, because believe me, that joke has been done, and done,"_ he warns sourly.

I must be feeling better, because I'm able to muster a chuckle. _"I reckon it has."_

_"Time to get going. Are you steady enough on your feet now to stand and walk?"_

_"Yes, I think I can manage –– but there's a small problem."_ I run a hand across my bum and thigh _. "I'm stark naked, not a stitch of clothing on me."_

_"Naturally. The less identification on a body, the better. You're lucky that they didn't think it necessary to remove your fingerprints and teeth as well."_

Ewww. My whole body shivers at that thought _. "Right. Okay. Well, I guess if I'm to go for a swim, clothes would just be a nuisance anyway. So, what do I do?"_

_"Get out onto the deck above you. From the ambient engine noise and the lack of light, I believe you are in the crew quarters directly aft the engine compartment. The best of the two exits from there is via the ceiling hatch, which will take you up into the centre of the cockpit."_

_"Why would I want to go into the cockpit? Isn't that where they steer the thing?"_

_"No,"_ he answers patiently, _"On a powerboat, the cockpit is an open-air lounge area in the back of the boat."_

_"Then could you just say, 'The open lounge area at the back?' I don't speak boat. I hate boats. Is there a ladder for this ceiling hatch?"_

_"Yes. Feel around for the bunks, the ladder is beside them."_

_"Right. Bunks, ladder."_ I feel my way along, my fingertips gliding over the smooth walls. _"Hey, there's a door right here."_

_"Does it open with a hand-wheel or a lever?"_

I feel about for a moment. _"There's just a lever door-handle, no wheel."_

_"Then that one goes into the engine compartment, not outside. Keep searching."_

There's a cupboard knob, another . . . a bedspread or blanket brushes against my knees, I feel down, and up. . . bunk beds. Just a little further on, my hand encounters the smooth, cold tubular metal of a ladder bolted to the wall.

 _"Got it."_ With one hand extended above me so I don't get any nasty surprises in the darkness, I climb up the ladder slowly, but my head starts to pound again from the effort, a wave of painful nausea twisting my guts. I gag, swallowing against the choking feeling, but there's nothing to swallow; my mouth is like a desert. I hack a dry cough, clinging to the ladder and trying desperately not to be sick.

_"What's wrong?"_

_"Nothing. I could just really use some water, I'm so thirsty!"_

_"Ignore it,"_ he orders. _"Keep moving!"_

Ignore it. Right. Easy for him to say! But I keep moving. A bit further up the ladder, my outstretched hand finds the ceiling hatch. I flail around it until I can locate and turn the handle, and the hatch sighs up on pneumatic hinges to reveal a brightly-lit open-air lounge. There's a huge c-shaped banquette curving around a long teakwood table, both well-attached to the deck. Behind the seating area is open darkness, although I can see the frothing wake tumbling white behind us. The other way, toward the front of the boat, there is a smoke-tinted glass wall with a sliding glass door in it. This is a big, luxurious boat, but it's still a boat, and the disorienting sway and pitch of it are playing hell with my stomach.

It feels like we're moving fast. The wind rushing over my bare skin feels bloody cold, and I shiver with gooseflesh. At least there's way less engine noise up here on deck, that roaring down below was driving me mad. The air smells cool and fresh, the sharp sea tang blowing the cotton wool from my throbbing head.

 _"I'm out on the deck, there's nobody about,"_ I murmur. _"I'm closing the hatch."_ I roll out onto the decking and push the hatch back down, lifting the recessed handle to close it with a soft click. I glance around into the night; away from the shipboard lights there's only ink-dark water below and a starry sky overhead.

 _"Do everything I tell you very, very quietly,"_ Mycroft warns _. "Move slowly. Now, there are storage cupboards under the seating there in the cockpit, with life jackets stowed in them. Open the nearest one, secure a jacket, and proceed to the right hand side of the boat."_

As I kneel down beside the banquette seat to open one of the clever cupboards under it, the back of my neck prickles with dread. _"You're absolutely certain that Jan and the others are all up top right now, right?"_ I whisper _. "You're sure?_

 _"Contrary to what some people might think, Angel, I am neither omniscient nor omnipotent!"_ Mycroft snaps, _"But I project that they are unlikely to come down whilst the boat is still at speed."_

 _"Okay, okay_." I shrug off the doomsday feeling and focus on quietly pulling out an orange life jacket, smoothing the straps and buckles with my fumbling fingers. Now, how the hell does this thing go on your body . . .

You wouldn't think a really big boat like this one could get tossed around, but we hit a patch of rough water or something and the deck under me suddenly bucks, throwing me face-down and sprawling. My stomach spasms; I can't move for the nausea, and, worst of all, this time I can't hold back the heaves. My body takes over, retching and gagging, although all I heave up is thin, bitter bile that makes me gasp and cough.

I'm so sick that it takes me a minute to realise that a man's voice is shouting loudly somewhere above me. . . Oh, god, they must've heard me! . . . I have to get off this bloody boat NOW! To hell with the life jacket, I slither and flop toward the side of the boat, gagging and coughing as I go.

I claw my way up the railing, and quite nearly make it over into the water, but a fraction of a second too late; rough hands snatch at my legs and haul me back, kicking and screaming, although I'm weak as a kitten and just about as effective.

I'm dragged through the door in the tinted glass wall and sat down on a white leather sofa, struggling against the two goons manhandling me. I start to stagger up again, but each of them have a grasping hand on my shoulders, forcing me down again. _"Sit!"_ one of them commands in English, then they both start talking at each other in rapid-fire Dutch.

When Mycroft's voice dryly remarks in my ear, _"Well, that didn't go as well as it could have, did it?"_ I choke back a sob. How can he be so bloody calm? But thank god he is _. "Now, Angel, I want you to listen to me carefully. I am going to tell you what to say to Dijkstra, and you will repeat it word for word. No deviations, no improvisations, just say what I tell you to, and we'll see if I can give them something worth keeping you alive for. If you understand, clear your throat twice."_

I clear my throat twice, although it brings on another fit of retching. The bloke on my left gives my shoulder a hard shake. _"No vomit on the carpets, you!"_ I dig my nails hard into my palms, willing the pain to calm my over-active gag reflex, and steady myself by focussing on my surroundings.

We're in the boat's main room, I guess, and it's as posh as any 5-star hotel. The lounge area where they have me sat is tastefully done up with comfortable white leather seating and cream carpeting. Opposite is a little kitchen, partially hidden by tall oak cabinets, and next to it a dining area with a huge table surrounded by banquette seating covered in more white leather. There's a decorative half-wall partitioning off the very front, and I glimpse two overstuffed swivel chairs facing a steering wheel and a darkened control panel below the windscreen.

The glass door slides open, and in walks Jan followed by a tall, thin, very tanned woman–– who is wearing MY bloody outfit! Jan comes over to stand in front of me, but the woman goes all the way to the front and sits down at the steering wheel, flipping a switch that lights up the control panel and taking the wheel.

Jan scowls at me, vexed _. "Only down for six hours! I know you swallowed the whole dose, it should have been ten at least, and maybe not woken up ever. You must be strong as an ox. This isn't good, Angelica."_

Mycroft's voice in my ear is very quiet, but crisp and precise, pausing after each phrase so I can catch up and sound natural. _"Say to him, 'Killing me would be very wasteful, Jan . . . I have useful information . . . and I'm perfectly willing to help you, even now, despite this misunderstanding.'"_

I repeat it all word-for-word, but Jan merely gives me a pitying look that makes me want to punch him. He turns away, speaking in Dutch to the two crewmen.

Mycroft tells me, _"Now say, very distinctly, 'I know where the lost Salcombe Harbour shipment ended up. I know where it is, all of it."_

When this comes out of my mouth, Jan stops talking and swivels around in astonishment. I smile at him sweetly, trying very hard to look like I know what the hell I'm doing. He blinks _. "What did you say?"_

I repeat it once more, and the two crewmen start to freak out at each other. They're trying very hard to hide it, but it's like I just told some little boys that Christmas is on its way.

Jan covers his own excitement with a fierce frown _. "How do you know about that?"_

 _"Calypso,"_ Mycroft has me say. _"She used to hire me to work duos with her."_ I wish! That would have been something else. _" . . sometimes we would linger together after the client left, just the two of us . . . I was there with her the night that last shipment went wrong, I was there when the Colombians phoned her in a panic. So I heard where they dumped it. I know where it is. And I know for a fact it's still there. The Russians haven't found it yet."_

 _"Then tell me. Now. Or I'll kill you."_ Jan says flatly.

Mycroft instructs me, _"Merely smile enigmatically, Angel. Make no answer. He's bluffing."_

So I smile, and Jan narrows his eyes at me. It really makes his wrinkles stand out when he does that. I'll bet he doesn't know, but I'm sure as hell not telling.

Finally, Jan accuses, _"You're lying. You didn't even know that Calypso was a government informant. You never knew her."_

I know exactly what to say to that, so I don't even wait for Mycroft's prompting. _"I was testing you, duh! I wanted to see what you knew before I made my offer."_

 _"Angel, stop improvising!"_ Mycroft growls sternly in my ear, but I ignore him for the moment.

 _"What do you want?"_ Jan eyes me suspiciously.

 _"What do I want? Well, let's see. First of all, I want a bloody robe or something to wrap up in! My arse is frozen. And I want a cigarette. And a bottle of water."_ I raise a eyebrow at him, adding, " _A sealed bottle, because you are a low-life scum."_

Jan barks a laugh at me _. "Ha! Yes, okay. Why not? Maybe you aren't lying. Maybe you are. We can find out quickly enough."_ He sends one of the crewmen bring me a robe, and as we wait, Jan brazenly eyes me, his gaze lingering on my bare breasts and tightly-drawn nipples. It's too fucking cold to be naked!

 _"Seems a shame to cover up that body, you know? Almost perfect. Although I did find your little flaw,"_ he smirks.

What? It hasn't occurred to me before now, but––what if that son of a bitch raped me while I was drugged? I don't feel sore or anything, but. . . . By god, if he did I'll serve him up his own bollocks. Scrambled.

I narrow my eyes _. "What little flaw?"_

Jan flutters his fingers at his left ear in answer. Oh! He thinks I have a hearing aid.

 _"Born that way. No big deal,"_ I shrug, and make sure to tug my left earlobe self-consciously. He's clever, but not clever enough. The crewman returns then with a plush white towelling robe, and also hands me a cigarette and a bottle of water. I gratefully slip into the robe and reach for the lighter and ashtray on the coffee table.

Jan takes the seat opposite me, leaning forward _. "Well?"_

Mycroft says _, "Stall for time. Tell him, 'I want to enjoy my smoke first. You owe me that much.' And no more improvisation, Angel! Say only what I tell you."_

I'll stop improvising when you stop being lame, mate! But I go ahead and tell Jan I want to finish my cig first, and he reluctantly agrees, so I let the seconds tick by as I chug the bottled water and enjoy quite a decent smoke. I know for a fact that it takes me a bit less than five minutes to smoke an average cigarette, and by the time I'm nearly done with this one the yacht has slowed, the engines idling down as the boat pulls sideways in the darkness. Jan says something to the two crewmen as the woman at the helm kills the engines, and the men disappear outside, probably to cast the anchor or whatever it is that boaters do when they park. I guess we've arrived, although I don't know where. I really, really hope my cavalry gets here soon.

The woman comes over to sit beside Jan, my pretty summer dress hanging off her bony-arsed body in a satisfyingly unattractive way. She's not as old as Jan, but she's not young either, and she looks at me like she could care less if they threw me overboard. Jan turns toward her _. "Vera, Angelica here claims that she knew Calypso very well, very intimately. What do you think?"_

Vera raises an eyebrow _. "Perhaps. It's possible._ " I expected her voice to be shrill for some reason, but it's actually low and warm, with a strong Dutch lilt. She bares her teeth in a smile, fake-white teeth in a fake-tanned face, telling me _, "I also knew Alice. Maybe not so well as you, though."_

Jan says _, "I want some proof."_ He nods at Vera, and the gaunt woman begins asking me rapid-fire questions about Calypso, from her tiny secret tattoo (Winnie-the-pooh and his honey-pot, on her arse) to how she took her tea (she didn't. Only drank coffee) ––

\- and Mycroft feeds me the correct answer every time. Every time. Just how well did Mr. Holmes know Alice Potts, aka Calypso? Apparently pretty bloody well. Disconcertingly well.

Still, this little interrogation is a good thing, because the clock keeps ticking on, and every second brings my deliverance closer. I try to stay focussed on that.

Finally, Jan and Vera exchange a look, and Jan nods. _"Okay, then. Obviously, you weren't strangers ––"_

 _"How come you knew her so well, Vera?_ " I ask impulsively, ignoring Mycroft's exasperated _"Angel!"_

Vera gives me a slow deliberate blink, just like how a cat does when it smiles at you. _"We worked together some, back in my whoring days."_

I love the way she says "whoring" in her Dutch accent, it sounds like "hoor-ring." I'm going to use that.

 _"Why was she set up to get murdered?"_ I press. This might be my only chance to know the truth, and I really want to know. _"What did she do? Jan said she got greedy so the British government leaked her personal information . ._." Mycroft remains totally silent, which I guess is not so surprising.

Vera glances at Jan, exasperated. _"Some people simplify things too much!"_ She shakes her head. _"Alice had to get more money because she was blackmailed by a filthy Russian, some gangster called Mica. He had photographs that would have caused her to go to prison, and he would only give them to her in exchange for an item he wanted her to steal from a client––"_

_"Who? Which client?"_

Vera shrugs. " _I don't remember, except he was the one she called Walrus, for his big moustache and jowls."_

Big moustache? That has to be Cobb. _"What happened then?"_

 _"She couldn't manage the theft, Walrus was too clever. So the Russian told her she had to pay money instead, a lot of money, every month. Her only hope was to try leveraging her contacts for cash. Next we knew, she was dead."_ Vera looks genuinely upset _. "Alice was a sweet, gentle soul. I hate for her to be remembered as a greedy pig. What happened wasn't her fault."_

I could argue that point, having seen the photographs in question, but I'm suddenly very weary of the whole sordid affair. I can guess which contact in the British government she had tried to leverage, and I can imagine how efficiently he dealt with it. There's never any blood on Mycroft's hands. . . none that anybody can see, anyway.

Jan leans forward again, elbows on his knees _. "I am thinking we need to get down to business now, Angel. Tell me about the missing shipment."_

I pause, waiting for Mycroft to tell me what to say, but there is nothing, just the soft hiss of static in my ear. Oh, shit. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to get Vera to tell me about Calypso's fate after all. Mycroft was privy to every word, he knows what I would have surmised. It will literally take zero effort right now for him to just let these people kill me.

I'm giving Jan a blank stare; not good. Gotta say something. " _The Colombians. And the cocaine?_ " Good bet that if it's smuggling and Colombians, it's probably cocaine. Jan nods encouragingly. _"Headed for Salcombe. The Harbour at Salcombe. Right."_ Mycroft? Where the hell are you _? "The shipment went wrong. And they called Calypso, because they didn't know what to do."_ Jan nods again, but now he's frowning; he can see my uncertainty.

So what do I do now, for fuck's sake? I just need to drag this out for a few more minutes. The boat sways and rocks slightly, and my poor stomach knots again with nausea; but this time it gives me an idea. I clutch my stomach with a cry of pain and make like I'm sick again, collapsing on the floor with a painful thud and writhing in convulsions that I hope look like a bad drug reaction.

There is much shouting in Dutch, and a pitcher of icy-cold water is dashed in my face. Son of a bitch, that wasn't what I was looking for! I keep up the show, though, since I don't have any better ideas.

Then I hear an alarm of some sort going off, and all hell seriously breaks loose. The shouting gets louder, and all four of them rush about; Jan and Vera hurry to the helm to roar the boat's engines back to life, and the two crewmen run outside and do whatever it is that boaters do to get underway.

I'll bet that alarm was a radar alert, and either the water police, or my team –– or both –– are getting near. What a wonderful thought! Keeping low, even though Jan and Vera are ignoring me at the moment, I duck over to one of the windows beside the dining table to peer into the darkness.

Far off, I can see a flashing blue light. . . make that two. . . but the engines are revving to a scream down below deck. . . I need to get off this boat, now! Before it takes off. As I'm making my way toward the glass door, though, the engine sounds change, and with a sickening lurch the big yacht gets underway, quickly building speed, going much faster than we were before.

Bloody hell. I've got to do something, anything, to slow this boat down! If I pitch myself over the side at this speed, I don't think Mycroft's original calculations will apply . . . although even that twelve percent probability of getting minced by the propellers was too high, in my opinion.

I couldn't overpower four people on my own, even if I were in top form –– which I certainly am not at the moment. Listening to the rumbling of the engines, though, gives me an idea.

I silently retrace my steps through the door and out of the cabin, back to the cockpit. The two crewmen are still somewhere in the front of the boat, or maybe up on the flybridge, I don't know; I can't see them anyplace. Lifting the hatch I came out of before, I quickly ease myself down into the darkness again, hiking up the bathrobe so I don't trip and tumble as I descend the ladder into the crew quarters.

Feeling along the wall back from the ladder, my fingertips find the door with the lever handle. It opens easily, although to step through the doorway I have to practically fold myself in two; the little door is surprisingly heavy, rounded on the edges with a thick rubber seal. I can see all this because lights automatically switch on in the engine compartment when I open the door, revealing a surprisingly large room with an engine on either side of a central walkway.

There's an incredible amount of noise in here, a roar so loud that it sets my teeth vibrating and makes my head pound. The room has crazy pipes and gauges and all sorts of blinking lights, and it stinks of petrol and exhaust fumes and hot oil. Somewhere in here there has to be an emergency shut-down, a kill-switch . . .

It's actually pretty obvious, once I stop being overwhelmed by the noise and the machinery everywhere, a bright red covered switch helpfully labelled, "Stop," and that's exactly what happens when I flip the switch.

Of course, the boat itself doesn't stop, momentum being what it is, but the engines both cut out like magic and there is blessed silence around me. I immediately close the entry door behind me and go looking for a way to lock it; there isn't one, so I creatively jam a spanner against the door-handle, bracing so it can't be dislodged. C'mon, cavalry!

It only takes a few seconds for the pounding to start on the door, and I'm glad that I've got it secured because the shouting on the other side sounds very, very ugly. I can't make out the words very well, but the rage comes through loud and clear.

The shouting stops, replaced by jarring thuds as the door is battered with something heavy. I close my eyes and hang onto that spanner. Finally, there's silence out there, but I'm not opening the door just yet! No way.

For a very long time, everything is completely quiet in the engine room, except for the humming of the fluorescent lights overhead and my own ragged breath. Hell, there could be a pitched battle up on the deck and I wouldn't know about it for the soundproofing down here. I'm going to just keep on waiting.

Although, I haven't heard from Mycroft in a while. _"Argus?"_ I call out experimentally. _"Argus, are you there?"_

No answer, just empty static. I'm not really surprised. That last bit, asking about Calypso . . . that wasn't really very clever of me, I suppose. I guess I let my curiosity run things again.

Well, done is done. At least I know now, I know what happened to Calypso. Well, everything except who actually pulled the trigger ––and that's almost irrelevant. Mycroft set it up so things would ––how did he put it? –– "Follow their natural course."

I don't want to think about it any more right now. I flick the switch in my ear off and the static goes dead; then I sit down with my back against the wall, pulling my knees up and resting my head on top of them. I'm physically exhausted, fucking shattered, but . . . I'm still alive. I won. I think so, anyway.

There's a brisk rapping at the door, and a voice calls out that sounds an awful lot like Jason's. The voice calls again, and this time I'm sure.

When I pull open the little door and see my team-mates, I could just about hug them. A Dutch cop stands behind them, holding up the crumpled body bag with a quizzical look.

I pull the towelling robe tighter around myself and raise an arch eyebrow _. "So this was a cakewalk, Jason? I thought I heard you say something earlier about a cakewalk. A simple assignment."_

 _"This IS a simple one,"_ he deadpans. " _You wouldn't want a tricky one, trust me."_

I search his dark face and darker eyes, but I can't tell if he's joshing me or not _. "Maybe. I don't know. But, I think I've at least had enough for today. Can I go home now? Back to London?"_

Aaron shakes his head as he takes one of my elbows to help me through the little door. _"No, you're going to have to stay in Amsterdam a few days while the police sort things out."_

 _"How long is that going to take?"_ I ask.

_"It'll take as long as it takes, Angel . . ."_

In the end, it took four days, enough for me to have a nice holiday. I spent the first two days pretty much asleep, then the next two wandering around Amsterdam with Jason and Aaron, sightseeing and talking. They aren't such bad blokes, once you get past Jason's Napoleon complex and Aaron's self-consciousness. Talking with them gave me a lot of things to think about.

Now, leaning over the railing of the Battersea bridge, the toe of my boot wedged against the iron balustrade, I alternate between gazing into the rolling waters of the Thames, and watching a rare sunset light up the western horizon.

I take one last puff on my cig, blowing the smoke out through my nostrils and tossing the butt down into the river. Holland was beautiful, Amsterdam was awesome, but London is . . . well, it's London.

It's home. I declined MI6's offer of resettlement, told them I'd rather just have a bit of cash and take my chances on my own.

 _"Really inadvisable,"_ is what Jason told me when I said I didn't want to take resettlement.

I thanked him for his advice but stuck to my decision. All during my debriefing back in Vauxhall I kept expecting Mycroft to show up and lecture me on the danger of staying in London, but I neither saw nor heard any sign of him. My transceiver was removed by the techie with a quick pull and a pop, leaving my ear a bit sore inside, but normal again.

They let me go this morning, with neither a farewell nor a thanks except the transfer of a few pounds to my current accounts; it's not even as much money as I would have expected to make from a weekend of "hoor-ring," but, austerity, right?

I arranged for my belongings from the Dormitory to be transported to storage; my handler, Alex, asked where I might be planning to stay now, but I just shrugged. There are a lot of hotels in London. I know which ones I like, and for the next couple of months I have enough money not to worry about it. _"I'm sure you lot will be able to find me whenever you need to,"_ I told Alex; he gave me a cheeky grin but didn't bother denying it.

I phoned Sara, of course, to let her know that I am fine and to apologise for disappearing again, but I don't think she worried all that much; like always, she lectured at me for not returning her calls, but this time it felt like a formality. Big sister duty. I dutifully apologised, and that was that.

I'm supposed to go to her and Richard's place for roast dinner tomorrow, it being Sunday. I suppose they'll want to talk about their wedding plans. I take out my cigarette packet, and shred off tiny bits of the paper to drop and watch the waters swirl them away. Sara has always been hell-bent to have a normal life, but me, I don't even know what that means. I never have.

It's not that I don't know what I need to do next, it's just that it scares me. I won't have any peace until I do it, though. Might as well get it over with.

I pull out my phone and ring my favourite driver, and I'm torn between being pleased and being terrified that he's available to come collect me immediately. I was kind of hoping I could procrastinate some more.

When he arrives, I furl myself into the back seat of the car, announcing where I want to go; I still know the address off by heart, and, apparently, so does my driver. He twists around in his seat, unruly eyebrows raised in surprise. _"Are you mad? I mean, are you sure?"_

Looking out the window, I nod distractedly, so off we go. It's dusk by the time we arrive, and my driver gives me a searching look in the gathering twilight, street lamps flickering to life around us. _"Are you sure, miss?"_ he asks again as he opens the car door for me.

I just smile at him and lay on another fiver for his tip. He's an okay bloke.

Walking boldly up to the shielded, ornate front door, I'm half surprised to go unmolested by a security team or some high-tech automated defence system. But there's nothing, just the flutter of a few moths around the lights at the front entry, and security cameras blatantly detailing my every move.

The shrubs and garden plantings around the entry are precisely arranged and immaculately groomed, not a leaf out of place; I don't think they'd dare. There's a doorbell. I reach out, touch it lightly, but there's no sound. Is it working? That would be weird –– I can't imagine him having a busted doorbell. I reach out to ring it again, but before I do, the heavy panelled door swings open, silently.

_"Angel. Come in."_


	38. "Fools rush in / Where wise men never go / But wise men never fall in love / So how are they to know?" ~ Elvis Presley, Fools Rush In (Where Angels Fear to Tread)

How can a fully-clothed person look almost indecent? Must be the lack of a waistcoat and tie –– plus the fact that Mycroft actually has the top button of his shirt undone, in addition to his shirtsleeves rolled up. As warm and humid as it is tonight I can hardly blame him, but it's disconcerting as hell.

I also didn't expect him to answer the door like a regular person. Where are his staff? He wouldn't look after a place like this himself; there's got to be at least a housekeeper or valet or something –– an old-fashioned butler in stiff suit and bow-tie.

But at the moment there's just Mycroft, one hand on the door handle, the other resting in his trouser pocket, and he moves aside slightly, inviting me to enter. His eyes meet mine calmly, utterly composed; still, as he looks at me I'm sure I can see tension in the set of his jaw, a deepening of the faint lines around his eyes.

I know I probably look tense, too. I mean, how could this not be a little awkward? There's just so much. . .

I make a smile and murmur, _"Thank you,"_ brushing past him into a formal foyer; unsurprisingly, it looks just exactly like the proper entry to a grand country home ought. In fact, it looks so proper that it's almost a snide comment on propriety.

With a languid hand, he gestures me to follow into an equally impeccable sitting room. The fireplace isn't lit, of course, but the lights are turned to a subdued glow that recalls firelight gleaming off the aged, polished wood of the oak-panelled walls. Gesturing to a pair of comfortable leather arm-chairs facing the dark hearth, he goes to a side-table that's laden with a silver tray, a cut-crystal decanter, and a set of small wine glasses. He glances back at me. _"Will you have a drink?"_

" _Sure. Whatever you're having,"_ I reply absently. The other side of the sitting room is furnished for 'informal' dining, with a heavy oak table and ornate chairs. Flanking the table are . . . horses? Yep; two life-size statues of mounted soldiers or something. They lend a bizarre, museum-like quality to the room, but hey, whatever. I lay my red leather clutch on the table and park my bum beside it, listening to Mycroft talk as he carefully pours a small glass of wine from the posh decanter.

 _"I've been enjoying a rare treat,"_ he comments. _"A little splash of 1914 Leacock Madeira Boal. I acquired a few bottles some years ago, but it recently became apparent that one would have to be sacrificed to top up the others and keep them aging properly."_ He's talking a little too fast, a little too much. _"There was a tad bit left after the top-up, so . . ."_

He looks wary as he approaches me with the little glass of tawny-dark wine. " _It was surprisingly difficult,"_ he muses, _"choosing which bottle would be sacrificed, since all had come so far and so long, and Leacock's is terribly hard to come by. However, needs must––"_

My fingertip accidentally grazes his hand as I take the wine glass from him, and he gives a tiny but definite twitch, like it was an electric shock or something.

 _"Steady on there!"_ I tell him, laughing to try and diffuse the tension _. "You can chill. It's not like I came here to assassinate you or something."_

He raises an eyebrow, polite _. "If you say so."_

I roll my eyes and wave an impatient hand at my scant summer frock and strappy heels. _"Where would I hide a weapon? I don't even own a bloody weapon."_

 _"Well, then, perhaps you'd care to use mine,"_ he says with studied nonchalance, and pulls his hand out of his pocket –– Bloody hell, he's holding a small pistol! But he's not threatening me with it; carefully placing it on the polished corner of the dining table beside my clutch, he gives me a Significant Look, then returns to the crystal decanter on its silver tray.

I stare at the hunk of sleek metal. I've never really looked at a gun before, I mean, really looked. This one is actually quite pretty. Well, aesthetic, anyway. The wood on the handle is lovely; it glows a pale gold with the sheen of fine maple, but the grain pattern is very, very strange, swirling and coiling like tawny smoke. I place my wine glass on the table to take up the little gun for a closer look.

It's surprisingly heavy, although I suppose it has to be. Solid steel, made to contain violent explosions and hurl spinning hunks of lead. What madman dreamed that up?

 _"Bird's eye maple,"_ Mycroft comments. I look up; he has his back to me, slowly pouring another small glass of wine _. "A rarity on this side of the Atlantic. It's a . . . memento. From an American colleague."_

I run a fingertip over the lovely, odd grain. Maple. Dense, durable, tough. Hard to work, but hard to break. And, beautiful. The thing is a work of art, but its sole purpose is to maim and kill. I shiver with the realisation.

 _"It is loaded,"_ he adds helpfully, then turns and carefully poses: one hand resting in his trouser pocket and the fingers of the other curled around the slender stem of his glass, leaning his bum back against the side-table and crossing one ankle over the other. " _You have just cause, I should think."_ He wafts the little glass of dark wine under his nose and watches me, waiting.

Unbe-fucking-lievable. _"Oh my god. Mycroft, you are SO over the top! You're not a drama king, you're a . . . a drama emperor!"_ I carefully place the gun back down, resisting the urge to wipe the feel of it off my fingers. _"I'm no bloody vigilante. Do you honestly think that I could stand here and shoot you in cold blood?"_ I'm actually a bit offended. _"Really?"_

" _No,"_ he says to the madeira in his hand. " _No, I really don't. You still care."_ He says 'care' the way some people would say 'cancer': with a mixture of pity and horror.

_"It's not a bad thing."_

He raises skeptical eyebrows in reply, adding, _"There is nothing more disastrous than attachment. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side,"_ he sniffs, like a Calvinist quoting his Bible.

I can't stand that smug, disdainful look. " _What about Sherlock? What about Mummy? What about,"_ I wave my hand around generally, _"what about all this, England, everything?"_

The smugness doesn't quite evaporate. " _I look after what's mine,"_ he says defensively.

_"And you still say that you're totally immune to sentiment?"_

His eyes go stony. " _You've no idea. It's the only way to stay safe. It allows me to be effective."_

 _"But you're not safe_!" I counter. _"You're not invulnerable to those nasty chemical defects. I'm proof of that."_ He gives me a condescending fake-smile, but I just keep bashing on. _"I'm no accident, Mycroft! I was put in your path as bait ––"_

The smug look unexpectedly returns, intensifies. _"How could you possibly think that I didn't already know that?"_

Bloody hell _. "You. . . knew? But, but––"_

_"I'm perfectly aware of who ultimately owns the Agency, and what his agenda is. I've known for a very long time."_

_"Then, why do you––?"_

_"––go along with his designs for me?"_ A rare, genuine smile flits across Mycroft's face _. "Because, Angel, the very best way to control a person is to let them think that they control you. This individual believes that I am dangling helplessly from his strings; I've even allowed him to jerk a few to prove the point."_ Mycroft shrugs philosophically and sips his wine. _"It diverts him from pursuing other avenues of control."_

 _"Sherlock is convinced that bloke owns you,"_ I warn, and Mycroft sighs.

_"I know. My brother's lack of faith pains me. I tell him the truth time and again, yet he will not believe."_

_"Well, don't you lie to him, like, constantly?"_

_"Not always,"_ Mycroft insists.

" _Of course, you only tell the truth when he's unlikely to believe you. Right?"_ Mycroft rewards me with a snort of mild amusement, and I pick up my glass again to swirl it around under my nose. The incredibly complex aroma of very old madeira wafts up: wine mellowed by time and art into something extraordinary. There's the sharp bite of alcohol –– madeira is fortified to something like 40 proof, so it's more like a liqueur than a wine –– and a generic winey smell, but under that is an amazing bouquet of toffee, nuts, ginger and oranges and . . . burnt toast. This stuff is almost 100 years old; I'm kind of afraid to drink it.

But at least sniffing it gives me something to do as I'm marshalling my thoughts; finally I blurt out _, "Okay, so you knew about Magnussen and the Agency –– which, by the way, I only found out recently. Did you also know that McCutcheon planned to send me in after the Torch codebook? And what was the deal with that whole Torch thing, anyway? And Doreshchenko ––"_

 _"Oh, good Lord,"_ Mycroft interrupts with a look of genteel horror. _"So it's to be the asking of questions and the revealing of secrets, is it? Is that why you came?"_ He swallows the last tawny drop from his glass, setting it back on the silver tray with a soft clink. " _I'd actually just as soon you take up the gun and try to shoot me; at least that would be something interesting."_

 _"There are some things I don't understand,"_ I say stubbornly. " _Some things I need to know, that I have a right to know."_

 _"Really?"_ He folds his bare forearms loosely across his chest. _"I've said to you before, whatever gave you the idea that you have a right to know anything?"_

I know my consternation is probably showing on my face, but I can't help it. This isn't how it was supposed to go. He is supposed to explain things to me, because . . . because I want him to? Because I've played along, so I deserve answers? That's silly. As a matter of fact, anything I can think of as a reason at the moment sounds pathetically silly.

It's his look of condescending amusement that chafes me more than anything, though; the only thing worse than not being able to win is not being able to win against . . . against THAT! I actually think for a second –– just a second, mind you –– about the gun lying on the table, right to hand. I could threaten him, make him tell me ––

 _"If you're going to do it, then just do it, Angel! Your indecision is fairly annoying,"_ he drawls.

How the bloody hell did he ––? Never mind. I shake my head, No. _"Even if I actually wanted to, which I don't, you've probably planned out six ways to disarm me before I could pull the trigger. No point."_

_"Eight. Unless, of course, I decided on the spur of the moment to let you do it."_

He is so strange. _"You'd stand there and let me shoot you? Why?"_

He gazes at me for a moment, silent, then his eyes slide down and away as I realise, Of course. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes, you just get tired. Of everything.

This needs to get settled once and for all. In three gulps I swallow down my glass; the fortified wine burns smoothly, leaving a liquid trail of fire from my mouth to my belly, and a lingering medley of wine and toffee, nuts and spice and burnt oranges rolling over my tongue. I place my glass on the table beside the little pistol, and stroll the few steps over to him.

Mycroft fully stands before I get there, drawing himself tall and then trying to add an extra bit of height with a tilt of his head –– but I'm wearing high-heeled sandals, so it's futile. I stop within arm's reach, directly in front of him: far too close, but he refuses to budge.

 _"You don't deserve to die. That would be too easy,"_ I tell him. Standing this close, I can smell the fine cologne he wears, and see the quick beat of pulse on the side of his neck, the slight sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat. _"I didn't come here to exact vengeance; it's not that black-and-white, and I'm sure as hell not qualified to judge you. Steen made some stupid choices, and I don't think it was up to you to save him from them. And Calypso. . ."_ I leave it at that, because something, something flashes through his azure eyes at the name, and is gone. Calypso. I stow away my flicker of jealousy, saving it up for later.

 _"Why the change of heart?"_ he asks me suddenly _. "Why aren't you afraid, running for your life? I'm no less dangerous to you now than before, you know. Quite the contrary."_

I feel a grin tugging again at the corners of my mouth. _"I ought to give you tit-for-tat about not revealing things, it would serve you right. . . but, let's just say that you've some real fans at MI6 –– or, rather, Argus does. There were a bunch of files from the 90's declassified just a few weeks ago, and my teammates told me all about them . . ._ " I allow myself a conspiratorial smile. _"You're not exactly the person that you'd have other people think, are you?"_

The look that crosses his face is hard to describe: Proud embarrassment? Abashed pride? Whatever it is, it flits by and is gone almost as soon as I notice it. " _So, there's that. But also,"_ I continue, _"I finally get how you operate. You don't break the law. You might work the loopholes like a granny with a crochet hook, but you never break the law because that wouldn't be right, and you are always right. Sherlock is the outlaw, not you."_

I think I scared him with that, because he betrays absolutely no reaction, not even a fake one. His face, his breath, everything about him becomes absolutely frozen, inanimate. I know I'm not wrong, but was it really a good idea to tell him? I plunge on, reckless. _"So the safest place to be, really, is right here with you, isn't it? You're like McCavity the cat, the bad shit only happens when you're not there."_ No answer, no response except that his eyes narrow just a fraction, thoughtful. _"What I don't quite understand, though, is how you manage to get people to get themselves killed exactly when you need them to."_

 _"Well,"_ Mycroft slides both hands into his pockets, looking down and away from my gaze; I'm still too close, but he won't step away. _"Well,"_ he repeats, _"human behaviour isn't all that complicated, is it? Stimulus, response –– the patterns don't vary too much. It's all rather predictable,"_ he sighs.

 _"Yes, it is, isn't it?"_ I know I shouldn't do it, but I simply can't resist: I reach as if to rest my hands on his shoulders. His reaction is immediate –– and completely predictable. He glances up, whipping his hands around to push mine down and away, then his fingers slowly curl around my wrists, capturing them in a firm grip; although he doesn't draw them up behind my back like he used to, since that would pull me into his arms.

I laugh at him softly, and he replies with a We-Are-Not-Amused look –– but he doesn't let go.

He doesn't let go, and oh! God, the feel of his long, strong fingers circling my wrists is fluttering white-hot up my arms, fanning through my body in a sudden rush of heat and wet. For fuck's sake, why?! The intensity of my reaction is acutely embarrassing, especially since he's looking me full in the eyes, and his Not Amused expression has shifted to Very Amused Indeed.

Bastard. We'll see who laughs last! Defiantly holding his gaze, I pull my arms back, strong and slow, bringing his hands with me. He resists, bracing himself slightly, but I'm a bit stronger than he is. Mycroft is faced with a dilemma: he can either hold on and step in closer to me, or he can let go of my wrists and step away.

I can feel his balance begin to wobble; the fool is going to fall over if he doesn't make up his mind.

Finally, almost overbalanced, he steps toward me, a frown creasing between his eyebrows. Our bodies are now hovering centimetres from one another, his long, thin nose almost touching mine.

 _"Angel, this is very inadvisable,"_ he warns in a voice barely above a whisper.

 _"Then let go,"_ I challenge.

But he doesn't let go, even when I draw my arms up behind me and cross them behind my back. He doesn't let go, but he doesn't move forward to press himself against me, either. His arms are encircling me, hands clenching my wrists, I can feel the heat of him through the front of my light silk dress –– but he stands there looking quite unmoved, almost bored . . .

Except that his whole body is subtly vibrating, like a violin string under the bow.

The space between us fairly crackles, yet he will move no closer. I want more. I need more. I tilt my face the tiniest bit toward his and think about a kiss, but he reads my intent and blinks; a muscle in his cheek twitches. Lips would be too much.

So I kiss him without touching. Over his chin –– along the curve of his jaw –– down the column of his neck –– across his wildly beating pulse: I play my lips in the air a centimetre above his skin, softly caressing him with my breath, certain that he can feel my heat breaking over him like a wave.

He gives a sudden, massive shudder as his fingers tighten around my wrists, hard, almost causing me to cry out in pain; I raise my head to see his face twitch as he gasps softly two, three, four times.

_"Did you just ––?"_

Regaining composure, he glares at me coldly. _"It would seem so."_

 _"That is HOT,"_ I moan, but he answers with a grimace of deep distaste.

_"No. Messy."_

_"Uh-uh. That is absofuckinglootly hot as hades."_ There's got to be a bedroom or three around here somewhere, although I don't want to wait long enough to find one. One of those comfy leather chairs would do nicely, or even that big wooden table over there. I want to be sliding the leather braces from his shoulders and diving at the buttons on that crisp white shirt, NOW.

I wriggle and pull against his grip, but Mycroft tightens his hold; I've put myself at enough of a mechanical disadvantage to make it difficult to break free.

 _"Angel! Stop it."_ He gives my wrists a little shake. _"Listen to me. There is a choice to be made."_

I can barely think in words right now. _"Yes –– do we do it in a chair, or on the table? What do you think?"_

 _"No!"_ He looks a little alarmed _. "No, that isn't ––! YOU have to choose."_

 _"It's completely up to me_?" That's new.

_"Yes, you must decide what you want, right now."_

I answer without hesitation, " _Okay, what I want right now is to fuck your brains out in one of those armchairs. And then maybe we'll find a comfy bed someplace and do it again. And then ––"_

 _"Could you at least try being rational for a moment?"_ Mycroft snaps at me, his sudden exasperation palpable. _"Is that even a remote possibility for you? Or is it simply asking too much?"_

There he goes, blowing hot and cold again! Fuck him. Furious, I violently twist myself out of his grasp and push away. _"What the hell do you want?"_ I've bloody had it; I'm so frustrated I could scream. _"You asked me what I want right now, and I told you! What is your problem?"_

 _"My problem?"_ He closes his eyes with a sigh. _"At the moment, I wouldn't even know where to begin answering that."_

 _"Whatever."_ I throw myself into one of the armchairs so hard that it scoots a little across the floor. I hope the scratch on the polished wood makes him wince.

Eyes still closed, he stays where he is, leaning back against the little table again. Mycroft really is a champion leaner; he somehow manages to make it look like he's holding the object up instead of the other way around.

 _"Angel, the choice you must make has to come first, before any other . . . activities. No matter how tempting."_ He sighs again, opens his eyes to peer at me gravely _. "First, please understand that I never, ever indulge in intimate associations with my subordinates or my colleagues. That rule is inviolable, and I should think the reasons for it are obvious. It follows, then,"_ he pauses for emphasis, _"that you must decide what you want."_

I'm listening, but I'm still not sure exactly what he's saying. _"Why does your little rule for yourself mean that I have to –– Oh!"_ it dawns on me of a sudden. " _Am I being offered a position?"_ I ask cautiously.

Mycroft lets that hang in the air as he turns and busies himself with the decanter, pouring another glass of the madeira. As he leans back against the table with the filled glass in his hand, I see him subtly shift his hips around; that little bit of mess in his pants is probably driving him mad, although he seems proudly determined to pretend it never happened.

Finally he answers me. _"In a word, yes."_

Whoa. I didn't expect that. _"So, what exactly would I be doing? Would I be working directly for you?"_

 _"Not directly, no. Very indirectly, in fact. As for what you would be doing, well,"_ he shrugs and takes a sip. _"A person with your skill-set could make herself very useful. And I can guarantee that the assignments would be interesting. Sometimes, exciting."_

 _"You need somebody to replace Calypso, is that it?"_ I ask pointedly, but he doesn't flinch.

_"Alice Potts was an informant, not an operative, and we were not the only organisation she contributed to. It was a very . . . complicated situation."_

_"Of course it was. Would the situation with me be any less complicated?"_

_"That would be nice, but I don't hold out much hope, really,"_ he says in a resigned sort of way _. "You seem to have a talent for attracting complications."_

Well, I can't deny that. _"So, I would be like, your staff Mata Hari or something?"_

 _"Or something,"_ he agrees.

_"Hm. And I would have to give up. . .?"_

_"Any intimate association with me, as well as any pretence that such had ever existed."_

_"Clean slate?"_

_"Clean slate."_

Is that even possible? Maybe for him; even then, I don't know. _"Is this why you've spent the past two months testing me?"_

That patronising fake-smile comes back. _"You have a sadly exaggerated self-importance, Angel, to think that it has all been about you."_

 _"I think it has, at least some of it,"_ I insist, although I'm not going to admit I have no idea of what parts were which. _"Although, most of it was about you, wasn't it?"_ I add accusingly, and he has the grace to look slightly abashed _, "So, it sure as hell would go a long way for you to let me in on it."_

Mycroft looks amused and shakes his head, No. I fold my arms and lower my head mulishly. _"Why not? I mean, it will make me more effective. . ."_ My voice trails off as I realise something. _"This is the final exam, isn't it?"_

He completely ignores my question, and me, holding his glass of madeira up to the light so he can admire the colour. I let the question hang in the air, and wait. I wager he'll get bored soon enough and give me some sort of answer.

It doesn't take that long. _"The scalpel doesn't question the surgeon. One that did would be quite limited in its usefulness."_

_"So that's what I am? A potential tool?"_

He shakes his head _. "Nothing so prosaic. A good operative is an instrument, not a mere tool."_

_"Same difference."_

_"No, there's a world of difference."_

_"Semantics,"_ I argue, gazing pensively at the empty hearth.

Ignoring me, he takes another appreciative sip of his wine, rolling it around his palate with a pleased look _. "This Boal really is coming along nicely. It's still fairly young, as madeira goes, but given enough time, say, another 50 years, it could be an exceptional vintage."_ Still admiring the colour of his wine, he prods _, "Well? What is your decision, then?"_

 _"I think . . . I think that the chair really won't be suitable after all; the leather is a bit sticky in this warm weather. The table is much the better option."_ It's not the answer he was expecting, I know it's not. I give him a cheeky grin when he stares at me.

 _"Angel . . ."_ His brow furrows, appalled. _"Angel, it's not worth it. If you're turning down this offer because you think you and I might . . . then don't, because that is never going to happen. Please don't delude yourself. I'm not . . . I don't . . . it would only ever be. . . ."_ He stops his nattering and takes a deep breath _. "Don't settle for that. You could make so much more of yourself than you think, it would be a criminal waste for you not to try."_ He gazes past me, out the darkened window, frowning. _"Women so easily settle for less."_

Say what? Bloody wanker! _"Oh, dear, and here's me with my life's ambition to be your chavvy little bit on the side,"_ I snark. " _Another dream, crushed."_ He presses his lips, narrows his eyes, and I can tell there is a nasty retort on its way; before things can get ugly, I add, candidly _, "Okay, so there actually was a time when I felt like that, but not any more. Now . . . well, to be honest, I think that you'd make a rubbish boyfriend. And a rubbish regular friend as well, so I'm not sure what's the use of you –– except, I'm serious about the table."_

He shoves his tongue in his cheek for a moment, then shakes his head _. "I do not understand you at all_ ," he confesses.

My sandals are very cute, but the straps are starting to feel too tight; I undo the buckles and let them fall to the floor beside the chair with a clatter. _"I'm flattered to be offered a situation, but I regret to say that I already have other plans."_

_"Such as?"_

I curl my bare legs under me comfortably _. "Well, for starters, I've decided that before I do anything else, I want to finish school."_

He actually looks surprised _. "To what end, if I may ask?"_

 _"Because . . . well, just because. Because I'll always feel a bit of a loser if I don't complete that degree. And,"_ I almost don't want to admit this out loud, _"and, because Jason and Aaron told me that I would need one to apply for a real job with the SIS . . ."_

He perks up at that. " _A degree will be unnecessary if you have a personal recommendation from me; it will save you years of time, and considerable expense and effort."_ He notices the stubborn look I'm giving him _. "Don't be foolish. It's how these things are done."_

 _"No."_ I tell him flatly _. "No. I want to do this on my own merit, not based on who I know."_

 _"Ah, the idealism of youth! Such purity_." He almost lays the sarcasm on too thick _. "On your own merit? Having the right people in your corner IS your own merit, the only sort that matters."_

_"Maybe. And maybe I'll tap you for a recommendation when I apply. But, I'm going back to school first. I need to finish that before I can get on with the rest of my life."_

_"You're being very foolish, and wasting valuable time,"_ he says crossly, finishing the rest of his wine.

 _"Whose valuable time? Mine? Or yours?"_ He doesn't answer. " _You probably already have an assignment that you need me for or something,"_ I accuse. He shrugs and places his empty glass on the tray again, putting his hands into pockets with his poker-face back in place, revealing nothing. _"Anyway, since I'm going to be a student for a while, then I'm neither one of your colleagues, nor your trainee."_ I smile suggestively, chin on interlaced fingers _. "So your inviolable rule doesn't apply, does it?"_ I am bloody well going to get naked with him one way or another tonight.

He gives me a speculative look. _"Then I suppose it would be germane to discuss your fee. . . "_

 _"No, it won't."_ I haven't thought this through, so I'm flying by the seat of my pants here: What a surprise. _"No fee. No retainer. No money."_

 _"I must insist,"_ he says firmly _. "As you've told me, your job is not an easy one. You deserve adequate compensation."_

_"No. I mean, Yes! I do deserve compensation, but no, not from you. Not anymore."_

He looks utterly nonplussed. _"Why not?"_

_"Because it's an emotional transaction now, not a monetary one."_

He scoffs. _"I don't do social transactions. I know how, of course; I've observed how real people do them, so I'm well-versed ––"_

_"Wait, did you say, 'real people' just now?"_

_"Yes. What of it?_ " He's suddenly a little too casual.

 _"Then, what does that make you? One of the unreal people? Counterfeit?"_ He rolls his eyes at me and pours himself another glass of wine from the nearly-empty decanter, regarding me sourly as he savours it. His third glass since I got here. Nervous much?

 _"As I said,"_ he pauses for emphasis. _"I really prefer to avoid social transactions. Especially when it concerns sex. Things are much easier and more manageable if kept in the realm of monetary transaction, don't you agree?"_

_"Not really. And you are diverting from my question. Why are you not a real person?"_

_"Just a figure of speech. Drop it,"_ he growls.

He's starting to look really cross, so I let it be. " _Okay. Okay! Transactions,"_ I shake my head. _"Just doesn't feel right for me to take your money anymore."_

Mycroft sighs theatrically. _"Doesn't feel right? Could you possibly be any more vague?"_

 _"Look, if you really want me to unpack it, here goes,"_ I don't even have to think about it; the pattern is suddenly quite obvious to me. _"If you pay me, you stay in control. You have the power. You give me money, I consent for you to take your pleasure. That's how it works for you, isn't it_?" I'm on a roll, and I keep rolling, despite the way he looks down at his drink and shifts uncomfortably. _"You TAKE your pleasure, you don't let anyone give pleasure to you, because they might not do it right._

_"On the other hand, if there's no money or other barter involved, that means you would have to accept what I choose to give, and you have to hope that I might––just might!––get it right. As well as trust that you could survive my getting it wrong._

_"And it means that you might get it wrong as well; you might fail to please me. Even worse, I might reject you . . ."_

I don't think any of this is news to him. He tells his wine glass, " _All of which is why I said, to begin with, that I prefer the monetary transaction."_

 _"You may prefer it, but I don't! Right now. . . right now, I don't need the money as much as I need other things and . . . and . . . stuff."_ I want to say, 'You. I need you,' but that would be too much; like the touch of lips, it would be too much, so I don't even think it. Some things are better left unsaid.

I don't speak another word, and neither does he, as he finishes that third glass. Then he puts it down on the tray and walks over to the chair where I'm sat, leans over to take my hands, pulling me up.

Just as I gain my feet, he pulls me forward hard, and I lurch against him –– payback! He grips my upper arms, pulling me in as his mouth targets mine, smashing hard enough to take my breath away. His tongue flicks between parted lips, redolent of rich wine, and I lean further in to him, pressing myself as fully as I can against the length of his body, opening my mouth to his. I would say yes, for god's sake yes, but my mouth is so busy all that can escape me is a groan deep in my throat.

His hands slide down to clasp my hips, fingers digging into the muscle, driving me harder against him. I wriggle and grind, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, holding him to me. He runs his lips and teeth over my neck then, not at all gentle, nipping and biting as I run my nails lightly down his back, feeling the muscles shift and stretch under his shirt. My knees go a little weak, and I have to work to keep standing.

He raises his head to look at me, mocking. " _Is this what you want, then?"_ he asks.

I moan and move to clamp my lips back on his _. "Yes!"_

He stops me, pressing his hands on either side of my face to hold me still, and asks intently, " _Why?_ "

My language-brain isn't working too good right now, so I just look at him blankly, trying to figure out what the hell he's asking. Why what?

He repeats again, " _Why?"_

" _Why . . . do I want you?"_ I whisper, not trusting my full voice. _"Is that what you mean?"_

 _"Yes."_ His eyes are searching mine, although I don't know what he could possibly be looking for. I've got so few answers.

_"Because. . . because I do. Because you're you, I guess. Just, because."_

He shakes his head slowly; I can tell he doesn't quite believe me. _"What can you possibly hope to gain?"_

 _"Um, at least one really nice orgasm?"_ I hazard; then, impulsively I add, _"You do know that you'll never be more to me than a pleasant diversion, right? You get that?"_

Surprised, he pulls back slightly to peer at me better _. "Isn't that supposed to be my line?"_

_"No, it's mine. And I mean it. Don't do this thinking that you'll gain more control over me, because you won't. Don't fool yourself."_

I'm looking at him, dead serious; he still looks skeptical, but whatever. It needed to be said.

Mycroft carefully extends two fingers and traces my straggly long fringe, tidying the hair away from my face. _"You need to have a professional do something about your hair,"_ he says matter-of-factly. _"It's an abomination."_

Recognising his diversion, I laugh _. "Am I hideous?"_

 _"Perfectly."_ He draws near again, zeroing in on my ear, breathing softly into it as he nips along the curve, sending shivers up and down my spine. Like I've been longing to, I attack the pearly buttons on the front of his shirt, popping them open one at a time. I know that he's got the inevitable undershirt on beneath, but I crave undoing those buttons and slipping my hands inside.

I can't believe he's letting me touch him so freely; it's like an embargo has suddenly been lifted, and I'm giddy with opportunity.

As I slide the braces from his shoulders, I glance over at the side of the sitting room guarded by the mounted soldiers. _"Table for two?"_ Impish, I tug him toward the dining area.

He grimaces. _"No, thank you. I eat there!"_

 _"Then you'll have a nice memory to accompany future meals! Come on_ . . ." I tug again, and Mycroft frowns at me stubbornly.

 _"No!"_ he insists, so I wind my fist in the waistband of his trousers and playfully start towing him over to the table. He grabs my wrist, and a nanosecond later he's behind me and has me restrained in an armlock. It's not painful, but I can forget moving until he loosens his grip. His mouth is right beside my ear, and his heated breath plays across my skin. _"Not in here_ ," he murmurs. _"There is a guest suite . . . much more suitable."_

Oh, yes!

By the time we make it down the hallway to the guest rooms, somehow the positions are reversed; I've got him in an armlock, and we fall to the huge bed grappling. This isn't slap-and-tickle, though; it's dead serious wrestling for alpha. I'm stronger and faster, but he has the advantage in technique; it ends a draw, with us both half-arse pinning the other. With a supreme effort, I roll myself on top of him, legs straddling over his hips, and he looks up at me, hands on my wrists again; he could take control of the scuffle, but he'd have to let go to do it –– and he doesn't. I begin to ride him slowly, working my dripping crotch over the bulge in his trousers.

 _"Messy,"_ I taunt. _"It's going to get extremely messy. You might have to burn these trousers and pants after I'm done with you."_

He doesn't smile or join in my joking, just holds my wrists, his lips parted, breathing heavily as he watches me in the lone glow of the bedside lamp. I lean over, kissing him hard, thrusting my tongue in time to the sway of my hips for a moment, then rock back, stretching, before stilling myself with a sigh. I hate to interrupt the heat of the moment for cold practicalities, but it's gotta be done.

 _"Look, I have to tell you, I can't be sure of my health status. I was unconscious for six hours in Amsterdam, and Dijkstra or his goons could have done anything to me. I've been tested and everything is negative right now, but . . ._ " I shrug. _"There are a couple of nasties that could still surface. So I'm not fluid-safe, right? Just so you know."_

_"I had thought of that, of course, but thank you for pointing it out. Decent of you. There are condoms in the night-table drawer."_

_"Good planning,"_ I leer. " _We might need a few."_

 _"A few?"_ He looks mildly alarmed _. "Good lord, I'm not nineteen any more, Angel."_

_"Nor am I. And I bet even when you were nineteen, you weren't nineteen, if you know what I mean."_

_"I was something of a late bloomer, I suppose,_ " he admits.

I turn my wrists slowly, and he responds by softening his hands, allowing me to shift out of his grip and turn it into a caress, hand to hand. _"How old were you? Your first time?"_

He considers for a second; not remembering, but deliberating, as our fingers twine and turn over each other. _"Twenty-five. He was a bit older than I, quite a bit . . ."_

_"And let me guess, he was beautiful, tall and blond, blue eyes and perfect cheekbones."_

A smile ghosts across Mycroft's face; he doesn't need to answer.

Still kneeling astride him, I skin off my light summer dress, wanting to show off the gorgeous satin bra and knicker set that I picked up in Amsterdam. I move his hands to my breasts, cupping them around so he can stroke the expensive ivory silk –– and my tight, straining nipples as well. I shiver as he obliges, and I run my hands down and around under his open shirt, over the fine cotton jersey underneath.

 _"You have too many clothes on,"_ I tell him. _"I need to be touching you."_

 _"I thought that was MY perversion,"_ he says, but I shake my head.

_"That's everyone's perversion. It's all just variations on the theme."_

He looks thoughtful at that, and continues to be thoughtful as he sits up to quickly pull off his clothes. Maybe it's because his pants and trousers are sullied –– maybe he plans to burn them for real! –– but he doesn't carefully fold his things as he removes them. It's weird to watch this man, he of the clothes rack and creased trousers, literally toss garments onto the floor. On the other hand, this is his home; maybe he has different habits here.

When his undershirt comes off, his back is to me, and I gingerly run a fingertip over a scattershot of identical small, white scars dimpling across his back.

 _"What are those from?"_ I ask as he slides his pants down and off, letting them drop on the floor.

 _"A fragmentation mine,"_ he replies, lying down beside me and running a hand over the curve of my hip. _"A Yugoslavian MRUD, to be precise. A crude device, but effective. I calculated the projectile spread and ricochet with 90% accuracy. . . but that meant some of the pellets still found me. Very painful."_

 _"Oh! That's from the Sarajevo mission, isn't it? When you went in yourself and got your agents out. Aaron told me all about that, he was really impressed."_ I touch another one of the little dimpled scars, this one on the top of Mycroft's shoulder _. "You were a regular Action Man in the 90's, weren't you."_

He shakes his head, _"Only when it was unavoidable. I despise fieldwork! It requires mingling, and chatting, and other things involving people. And bad food, and nasty accommodations, and very often, it results in getting hurt. I hate getting hurt."_

I don't know if he's intending to be funny or not, but I am certainly laughing. _"Okay, I get it. But you know, to hear them tell it, Argus was like 007, only with more brain and fewer casualties."_

Mycroft gets that look again, that embarrassed-proud-smug look, and practically purrs; suspicion flares through me. What are the odds, really? How terribly convenient. . . The thought must have shown on my face, because his smug look immediately vanishes, smoothed away into a bland smile. Okay, now I'm not just suspicious ––now I'm sure. Bloody hell!

 _"You! You arranged for the Argus files to be declassified, didn't you? That was no coincidence! That was your doing_!" I accuse _. "You manipulated me."_

He doesn't bother denying it, he just pulls me toward him, and his eyes hold a mocking smile as he glides his fingers over the cleft of my arse, tracing sensitive skin through the thin satin. _"Don't you know, everyone loves a hero."_

Oh, that's just rich, that is. He is so full of shit. " _Hero!"_ I throw a leg over and put him on his back, settling myself astride his hips again. My soaking wet knickers slide around on his bare skin, and I feel him growing rock-hard under me as I wriggle my arse. Mmm. _"You're no fucking hero, Mycroft."_

He raises an eyebrow, running his hands up my thighs, grasping my hips to guide their gyrations and adding his own. _"No?"_

I trace my fingertips lightly over his bare chest, zeroing in on his nipples, lightly flicking them with the barest contact; he twitches a little with each small touch. _"No. Heroes put themselves at risk for the greater good. All you do is take care of what matters to you. You're just unbelievably selfish, is all."_

 _"If it has the same effect, what matters the motivation?"_ he asks lazily as I writhe against him, my pulse pounding between my legs, breath rising.

 _"Matters."_ Words are getting difficult again.

 _"Doesn't."_ He's rising up slightly, pushing himself against me now; our tempo quickens, both of us in sync.

_"Liar."_

_"As if you could tell when I lie,"_ he scoffs, sliding his hands up to spill my breasts out of their satin cups, rubbing his thumbs over my nipples, pinching them hard in the way that I like. How the fuck does he know I like that? I like that. I like.

" _I can tell, test me!"_ I am bouncing on the edge of an orgasm, my whole body tingling and jangling. _"Lie to me!"_ I laugh, daring him. _"Lie!"_

 _"If you insist,"_ he says, and does MY rollover trick, the one where the other person is suddenly on the bottom and has no idea how they got there; I'm pinned under him, still writhing. He bends his face close to mine, breathes _, "I adore you."_

It has the effect of a bucket of cold water; I freeze, eyes wide. Did he just say what I thought he did? And then I recognise the glint of deviltry in those blue eyes, the mocking smirk.

 _"You dick! You absolute BAG of dicks,"_ I slam his shoulder with my fist, but I can't help laughing. _"Okay, fine, never mind. You are the prince of lies, the sultan of deception. I concede defeat."_

 _"Well. It's about time you came to your senses."_ He shifts over so he can reach down, pushing aside the slick satin to glide two fingers inside me, applying deep friction in just the right spot to make me arch up with a gasp, clutching at his shoulders and moaning. It feels so, so, so goooood! Then he sets his mouth and teeth to work my nipples, and I'm almost overloaded. Quick and fierce, the intensity builds until my moaning erupts in a wide-throated howl, sweeping me out and away.

I'm still quivering with the aftershocks when I hear a drawer slide open and shut; he rolls me onto my side, pushing my knickers down out of the way, his soft stomach curling against my bum, hands guiding my hips; a moment later he fills me, thrusting hard and deep. His fingers are on me again, this time rubbing my still-swollen clit in time to his rocking hips. Needing to hang onto something, I reach behind me to grab a cheek of his arse, gripping into the muscle as it tightens and rolls, urging him into me harder and deeper as his fingers stroke faster. I feel his breath panting rough in my ear as my brain shatters itself again, although this time I don't quite howl.

He clasps me to him as my tremors and waves subside into a warm glow, and I can feel him still filling me; I don't think he's come yet. Yeah. My turn.

I'm rag-dolly relaxed, but incredibly energised; I rise onto my knees and manoeuvre myself between his legs, deftly rolling up and removing the slick, wet condom and carefully tucking it where it will stay slick and wet.

 _"I hate the taste of latex,"_ I answer to his puzzled look, and, not waiting for him to argue, watch the warring emotions play across his face when I lean down and flick my tongue expertly over his most sensitive places. Pleasure and annoyance mingle and alternate as he raises up on his elbows, almost says something, flops back down again, sighs, closes his eyes with a groan; then rears up again, squirming away slightly.

_"Angel, really, I don't ––"_

_"Receive pleasure very well? I know, you need practice."_

_"I mean, I don't really enjoy ––"_

_"That's not what I'm seeing down here."_ I swirl my tongue around in a slippery twirl, feeling his pulse swelling in my circling hand _. "Everybody down here seems quite jolly, thanks. Why don't you just lie back and enjoy the ride?"_

He groans again, theatrically flopping back against the pillows, and I happily go to it with my mad, mad skills.

I've never understood how people can say, 'It's just a blow-job. No big deal.' JUST a bj? Right. Teeth placement, jaw stress, suction, gag reflex. Bobbing up and down AND trying to breathe. Easy? Ri-i-i-ght. But, like a lot of difficult things, rewarding. I play him to the edge of an orgasm twice, watching the rise of his breath, feeling his muscles tense under my hands, and backing off before it peaks; I want this to last, and I aim to completely blow his fucking mind.

When it feels like time for the homestretch, I reach for the slippery condom, slide it over my finger, and glide it around the soft pucker of his arsehole, all without breaking the rhythm of my tongue and lips; he doesn't pull away or tighten up, but instead flexes his knees a little, and I smile around my mouthful: Green light. I probe my finger further as I take him deeper into my mouth, gradually desensitising my gag reflex as I also ease into him, slipping past the first circle of muscle and teasing through the second, inner one.

When I'm in up to the knuckle, I crook my finger to prod into his sweet spot, at the same time taking him in my throat so deep that my lips brush against dark, curling hair. I can only take short snorts of air now, but it hardly matters; I'm so turned on, so into the feel of him writhing and moaning under my hands and mouth that I don't care if I ever breathe again.

When he comes, it's a literal explosion; he bucks and rocks and roars, fists pounding the mattress as he arches up, straining madly, and I push deeper into him as well, matching his thrusts until he's utterly spent and can only lie there, trembling.

 _"Jesusfuckingchrist,"_ he gasps weakly. _"You're trying to kill me after all. Assassin."_

 _"Not even!"_ I protest. _"I'm an innocent bystander._ " I toss the used condom into the bedside trash and burrow down beside Mycroft's sweating, still-twitching body; I predict that he will shortly gather himself and make an abrupt exit, so I have to snag my cuddles before he fully recovers.

There is no sound but our tandem breathing, and neither one of us moves for a while. Then his breath pattern shifts, and he suddenly asks, " _Which university?"_

I knew he'd ask _. "City University London. That's where I started out."_

_"What? Why would you want to waste your time there?"_

_"It's where I started out,"_ I maintain stubbornly _. "And they've got a great criminal psychology department."_

 _"It's not even a real school,"_ he insists, eyes still closed, and the frown-line is back between his brows. He looks pained.

_"Okay, so it's not exactly in the Russell Goup, but it's a decent place, and I don't have to justify anything to you. It's not up for discussion."_

_"Of course,"_ he agrees without agreeing _. "Still. You could do much better than that, you know. I could arrange ––"_

 _"No."_ I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted, though. He could probably get me into a really good uni, even might help pay for it . . . and the hidden cost would be him dictating to me constantly, managing me, and I would feel like I couldn't say no. Uh-uh. No bloody way. _"I appreciate the thought, but no thank you."_

He just sighs; a deep, disappointed sigh. Oh, the drama! I smile to myself, and burrow a little closer; he doesn't shift away from me, but I can tell he's getting ready to break and run.

_"I suppose it's also none of my concern how you intend to support yourself . . . "_

_"That's right, it's not."_ The less he knows about my plans for part-time work, the better.

_"I don't suppose you'd consider ––"_

_"No. Thank you, but no."_ Again, I'm not half tempted to take him up on it, but I know beyond a shadow of doubt that it would be a disaster. He wouldn't be able to stop trying to run things, and I have had it with being run.

Mycroft sighs again, but this time rises from the bed, scooping up his discarded clothes with a scowl. I suppose he might have rewarded me by staying longer if I capitulated, but I'm not that desperate for cuddles.

He pauses by the open door, his clothing bundled over one arm, his shoes dangling from two fingers _. "Well. Is there anything at all that you would graciously consider allowing me to do for you?_ " he asks archly.

 _"Absolutely yes."_ It takes a bit of effort for me to sit up; I didn't realise how tired I was. _"You could ring me every now and then. We could have dinner, or something."_

He looks me over with more of a frown than the situation warrants. " _Very well. If you like,"_ he says, reluctant, then warns, _"It would be very infrequent, you understand. I'm busy."_

 _"That's good, actually. Some things are best in small doses,"_ I tell him pointedly.

Not quite smiling, he nods and turns to leave, then hesitates and swings back around. _"May I ask you, Angel ––"_

 _"Now that, right there, needs to change,"_ I interrupt. " _My name isn't Angel."_

From his look, I realise that once again I've baffled him. _"No, but that's what you're called, isn't it?"_

 _"That's what my clients call me. It's my stage-name."_ He still isn't getting it _. "My name is Angelica."_

He blinks, then nods. " _I see,"_ he says. " _Well, then,"_ he continues, _"Angelica, I wanted to ask, if you could say, when least you saw Sherlock . . . did he seem well to you?"_

I think back, to that night at the strip-club, " _He seemed just fine. Very energetic,"_ I reassure. _"Why? Is he ill again?"_

 _"I wouldn't necessarily know. He's become very . . . elusive lately. More so than usual, and my efforts to keep him distracted aren't working."_ Mycroft's brow furrows deeper. _"I do worry about him."_

I don't know which of them I feel sorrier for, because I have an inkling of what it would be like to have Mycroft worry about you. _"I don't think he understands why you do what you do, you know? I don't think he gets it."_

_"He knows I'll always look after him."_

_"But he thinks you do it all out of . . . of a pathological sense of propriety or something. That's what he said, anyway."_

Mycroft opens his mouth, closes it again, then shakes his head. " _I can't change that,"_ he says quietly, and turns away again toward the door. " _If you like, you may stay the night here; I'll have Morrison bring you breakfast at eight."_ He pauses in the hallway, looking back _. "Is that too early?"_

_"No, eight will be fine. Thank you."_

" _You're welcome. Angelica."_ He gives me a curt nod and is gone, padding barefoot down the hall.

 

 

Even though I awaken in the morning far earlier than I usually do, by the time I've had a shower and dressed there is already a tray outside my door with tea, toast, and an egg on it, as well as tiny vase of tiny yellow roses. The big house is utterly silent, and after I've eaten, I leave the guest suite in hopes of finding my way back to the sitting room and my handbag; I need to be back at my hotel shortly, and then to Sara's afterward.

I'm intercepted in the hallway by the butler, Morrison. He's in a suit and a bow-tie, all right, but there's nothing old-fashioned about him beyond that; he's young and very, very good-looking. Of course.

We introduce ourselves, he inquires after my comfort and other such niceties, then out of the blue he hands me a mobile phone.

_"Mr. Holmes said I was to give you this, with his compliments."_

I take the mobile curiously, looking it over. It's new, and expensive. Of course. After a tiny hesitation, I slide it into my clutch; I don't doubt that it's tagged and traced, and probably wire-tapped as well. I certainly won't use it for or around anything that I want to stay private, but it would be rude to decline the offering.

Morrison has been watching me examine the phone with a discreet smile; when I tuck it away, he adds, _"I'm also to drive you back to your hotel, to spare you the trouble of hiring a cab. Shall we?"_

A few minutes later, I'm sitting in yet another black Jaguar –– Same car every time? Different car? I can't tell –– gazing out the window at the leafy suburbs rolling by. It's a drizzly day, but not at all chilly. A warm, light rain washes everything clean, making the trees and shrubs and grass along the verge glow vibrant green, shrouding the horizon in mist.

We arrive in Mayfair quicker than I would've thought, but then, Sunday traffic is a bit easier than other days. Morrison pulls the Jag up to the kerb and pops around to open the door for me, returning my thanks with his handsome smile and holding an umbrella overhead to walk me the six feet to the hotel marquee; it's a nice, though unnecessary, touch.

Once I'm inside, I realise that old habits die hard: I'm striding with exaggerated purpose through the lobby, looking as businesslike as possible so no one will question my right to be here, or ask where I'm going or who I'm seeing. That's pretty silly, because now the shoe is on the other foot, and it's going to stay there. Deep breath, slow down.

I stop in front of the polished brass doors of the lobby lifts, tapping the lift call button and stepping back to smile at my reflection: yeah, Mycroft is right about my hair. That untidy gingerish mop has to go. I think I'll have it bleached back to my natural colour, but trimmed into a new shape, something edgy and fresh. Not retro, I don't think that look suits me anymore.

But, what does suit me now? I don't even have the faintest idea. Before I can have a crisis over it, though, a faint chime sounds from my handbag; there's an incoming text on the new phone.

_Knightsbridge is 23 minutes away from Northampton Square via the N19 bus, and 33 minutes by bicycle via the Embankment. MH_

Oh, good lord, man, give it a rest! City Uni is in Northampton Square; I reckon he's offering me to stay at the Knightsbridge flat again, and planning my commute for me in the bargain. I move aside to lean a shoulder against the cool, tiled wall beside the brass doors, ignoring the sparse stream of people going in and out the lifts as I tap out a response to Mycroft's unasked question _: No, thank you_

I do feel a pang of uncertainty after I hit 'send', though; I didn't half love that little flat on Ennismore Mews. Perhaps I should reconsider?

He replies immediately, _Perhaps you might reconsider later. MH_

How does he do that? How does he know? Probably quite a lot of educated guessing.

Another message arrives on the heels of the first _, I can be very persuasive. MH_

Now, see, that's one text too far, isn't it? Maybe he thinks he's being playful, but it comes out creepy. On the other hand, he might be perfectly aware of the creep factor and not give a fuck. Either way, I don't like it.

I text back, _Thats a bit menacing?_

A moment later, he tries again: _I meant I would like a chance to talk it over with you. Dinner Thursday?_

Well, that would be nice . . . but will he think I'm desperate if I say yes right away? If I say no or make it hard to schedule, though, he might think I don't want to spend time with him after all, which isn't really the case. . . Maybe I should compromise and say no, and then yes? Or maybe . . .

Maybe I should stop being a moron and decide based on what I want, not on guessing what he wants, hey? Old habits do die hard. I text a simple, _Ok._

_My driver will collect you at half seven from your hotel lobby. MH_

There he goes again! I reply _, Try again_

_Would you be agreeable to being collected from your hotel lobby, perhaps, at half seven on Thursday? MH_

Good enough. _Yes_ , I text _. Its a date._

 _No_ , he responds immediately _. It is not a date. MH_

Oh, good grief. There he goes with the semantics again. My mouth quirks into a grin as I text, _An arrangement?_

_Yes. An arrangement. MH_

Whatever. _Ok c u later_

I look up from sending that, straight into a pair of intense hazel eyes; they belong to a middle-aged gentleman who is standing quite close to me, waiting for the lift. He smiles broadly when I catch him staring.

 _"Such a pretty smile on such a pretty girl. Are you texting your boyfriend?"_ He's very well-dressed, expensive suit and briefcase, high-end corporate. Possibly in banking, accent sounds American. Married, but on the pull. Definitely on the pull.

The lift doors rumble open for us, and I slip the phone into my clutch, returning his smile with interest. _"Sorry, no. I don't have a boyfriend."_

By the time the lift stops at my floor, I have a "date" for tomorrow night with the American, along with his promise that he'll be "very generous" afterwards. We'll get down to specifically how generous he needs to be later. Right now, I'm in a rush, as I have to get ready for the client coming to meet with me shortly, and then straight away I'm headed to Sara's for Sunday roast. No rest for the wicked, as my mother used to say –– although she also told me that idle hands did the devil's work. There's a paradox in there somewhere, but I can't be arsed to work it out just now. I'm too busy patching up my halo.

~The End~


	39. Author's Notes for "Where Angels Tread"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is no real ending. It's just the place where you stop the story." ~ Frank Herbert. These are the author's notes for "Where Angels Tread" for those who might be interested.

**Logistics**

I conceived the idea for this story a full two years ago (!) in April of 2014. After two months researching and carefully outlining the project, I started writing it in June 2014. The first chapter was posted to AO3 in August 2014, and posted to fanfiction(dot)net a few months later because of initial difficulties with that platform. The final chapter has been posted April 2016, and the whole thing is 253,811 words long, in 38 chapters ~ which is much, much, much longer than I thought it would be!

My goals were 1) to write a little bit every day, to the best of my ability, until 2) it was done. I hit both marks, which pleases me to no end. As each chapter was finished, I let it sit for at least a day, then edited it many, many times until I couldn't see any way to make it better.

I had lined up a friend at the beginning to beta and brit-pick for me, but she had to bow out before I even got the first chapter done. Since I was new in the Sherlock fandom in 2014, I didn't know anyone else to ask –– so I decided to go it alone and just be extra meticulous about editing and proofing. This didn't help the chapters to get published any faster, but it did force me into a crash-course in British idiom and custom, which was interesting in itself. I hope I got most things mostly right; I'm open to receiving constructive criticism and making revisions if I didn't.

**Background**

_Where Angels Tread_ first bubbled up in my brain as a fix-it story, a response to Mycroft's seeming out-of-character moment near the end of His Last Vow when he tells Sherlock, "Losing you would break my heart." Even though I understood at the time (and the show-runners have indeed spelled out) that Mycroft was drugged by "something in the punch" when he said it, my reaction was still "WTF!? Mycroft would never say something like that right up front! What happened to him?"

I also became obsessed with wondering what on earth a midlife crisis would look like for Mycroft. The years just after they turn 40 are murky waters for most people, when elements of the psyche that have been long-suppressed demand recognition and release. A character like Mycroft, who would have started out somewhat odd, might become progressively odder as they aged, until some resolution is negotiated.

These two streams merged into the idea for _Angels_ , that after Sherlock is seriously wounded Mycroft finds himself gripped by an emotional crisis that we see being worked out and resolved through an original pov character. I also had some headcanon about Mycroft that I wanted to explore, which I preferred to do in fic rather than meta.

Now, I have a confession: I only started writing fiction of any sort in 2013, with three very short stories in the LOTR fandom (they can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shieldmatron/pseuds/shieldmatron), if anyone cares to have a look) and one aborted WIP –– so _Angels_ is actually my first real piece of writing.

I did a careful outline before starting, with classic three-act structure and character arcs and all the bells and whistles that all the books recommend . . . and I got bogged down about three chapters in. Classic writer's block. Couldn't write to save my soul, even though I was working from a thorough outline and plot diagram and everything. . . It lasted for weeks! What broke the block was an hour of free-writing, nonstop; I trashed my outline, tossed out my (color-coded!) plot diagram, and just kept asking myself at each turn, "What happens next?" I let Angelica tell her story. If you've ever been rafting, it was like paddling against the current vs. guiding the boat as it careens down the rapids!

At the end of that hour, I realised that I'm not a writer who works well with too much structure. Who would've guessed? Except that I should have known, because I'm generally pretty allergic to being told what to do.

From that point on, whenever I sat down to write, I had only a hazy idea what was coming next. It was exciting, because every writing session was a new discovery, but also scary as hell, because by that time –– wonder of wonders! –– I had a number of people actually reading the thing.

I never expected very many readers. I mean, I had hopes that a few people might, but I didn't think there would be many; face it, I couldn't have designed a more auto-nope story if I had been actually trying: First-person POV, original character, heterosexual pairing, "minor" character focus, some dark and difficult material, ultra-long, and no Johnlock (I'm not anti, just not interested). I was incredibly pleased to find so many reading and enjoying the story despite all that.

So I just kept asking myself, What happens next? And kept answering, and somehow ended up at the final scene that I had been imagining all along. It's almost like my subconscious knows what its doing or something. Weird.

**Story Structure**

From the first I meant for _Angels_ to be a single POV piece, utilizing a self-insert second-person OC to explore my ideas about the Sherlock characters. Since I honestly believe that it's implied in _Sherlock_ that Mycroft is gay, my first try at my OC was male, leading me up against a basic limitation in my current ability as a writer: For the life of me, I can't write good slash, at least right now.

I studied, I read, I worked at it, but the sex scenes were frankly boring, and since sex was going to be a significant part of the story, I had a problem.

So I decided that Mycroft could just as well be bisexual (or hetero, or asexual; who knows?) and thus Angelica was born, and it worked. Almost. The prose was still too wooden, until on a whim I re-wrote the chapter from second person to first person. Then, it sang.

I didn't envision or plan this story as a romance, and I have taken pains to let potential readers know upfront so they wouldn't be disappointed ~ but now that it's finished, I stand back and wonder if maybe I wrote a romance after all. If the definition of romance as a genre is, "A story focusing on relationship and romantic love, and having an emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending," (according to the Romance Writers of America) then I suppose whether or not _Angels_ fits that hinges on how you define romantic love. To be honest, I'm still not sure myself, and I wrote the thing! In the end, however it works for you, the reader, is what matters; you may take the story any way you like with no argument from me.

Starting off each chapter with a quote or fragment of poetry was an accident. There was supposed to be only one, the Rumi quote that the first chapter starts off with, but then I found the perfect one for the next chapter, and the next . . . so I went with it. I have quite a stock of quotes, as I've been collecting them for years, and if my stockpile failed me there was always .

In general, I claim no conscious responsibility for the story structure as it stands; if you have issues with it, you'll have to talk to my id :)

**Research**

Oh, my lord, how did people write things before there was Google and Google Maps? I've travelled a fair bit, and lived for a few years in the Antipodes, but like many Sherlock fic writers I've never even been to England. Google Maps to the rescue! Every location in _Angels_ is a real place, or based on a real place, researched as well as I could.

My primary resources for writing about sex work and sex workers were two excellent scholarly books, _Playing the Whore_ by Melissa Gira Grant, and _Sex at the Margins_ by Laura Maria Agustin; I also had a look at Brooke Magnanti's _Belle de Jour: Diary of an Unlikely Call Girl_ to get a specifically London perspective. I lurked around sex-work Tumblr quite a bit to get an idea of what sex workers were concerned about, incidentally soaking up some of their sub-culture to help inform the character of Angelica. One tumblr blogger I learned a great deal from is clarawebbwillcutoffyourhead; she has some very good resource pages.

If you've read this far, thank you! Thank you for your interest, and (assuming you have, or will) thank you for reading _Angels_. And, if you are one of the readers who made a point of posting comments to encourage me along through the WIP, a double-huge thank you with a cherry on top!

Love,

Stella Mira


End file.
